The #1 fan always losing ticketing war #6
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我會提前在這章稍微提及Ilya的心理症狀，但這個時候，他跟身邊的人都還不清楚他實際的狀況是什麼。
我在這個章節嘗試了其他skin效果，如果你看到(✉️Picks up the card)，請用點擊✉️。
In this chapter, I touch upon Ilya's mental health struggles, but at this point, he and the people around him don't yet understand what is actually happening.
I've added some interactive Skin effects. when you encounter (✉️Picks up the card), simply click the ✉️ to reveal more, click again to hide them.
Ilya and Shane are alike but different. They both grew up playing the piano, quit for a time, took up hockey, and eventually returned to the piano later in life.
Hope you enjoy the character details I've revealed so far.😊
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Ilya起床後就知道今天一整天都很不對勁。
他的鬧鐘響了三次，每次都響到鈴聲結束，第四次結束前他把手機扔向房間的角落，用棉被裹住自己。他的四肢無力，肌肉緊繃，彷彿水泥在血管中流動讓他動彈不得。每次吸氣，胸口都壓著巨石，後背靠著冰冷的岩塊，他的高級床墊與天絲棉被像是不可理喻的山壁將他夾在之間。
鈴聲又響了，不是鬧鐘而是電話。Ilya不知道從鬧鐘放棄他之後過了多久，但是窗外的天色比他上次看到的更橘了；他無視了電話鈴響。
Svetlana的咆哮充滿整屋子，她敲在門上的巨響卻沒比他的心跳聲來得大。
然後她闖進Ilya的臥室，把他拖下床，送進浴室，他穿著短褲泡在半滿的浴缸裡。他裹著毛巾步履蹣跚的時候，Svetlana幾乎拆了他的步入式衣櫃，扔出一套西裝與皮鞋，她盯著他穿上。直到Svetlana往他手裡塞了起司火腿三明治跟飄出咖啡苦味的保溫瓶，她把他推進汽車後座，從後照鏡看了他一眼，Ilya才說出今天第一句話。
「我不想彈了。」
「Okh...Ilyusha...」Ilya迴避她從後照鏡裡投來的視線，「這是因為Jane嗎？還是你昨晚宿醉。」
「我沒喝酒。」
「所以是因為Jane。」
「我就是不想彈。」
「Ilyusha……我們可以延後半小時開場，但是取消……會有很多人失望，」她嘆了一口氣，「Jane也會。」
「Shane根本不會來！」Ilya吐出的聲音或許是今天最有力的一次。
「至少陪我到音樂廳，如果上場前你依然不想彈，我們就取消，好嗎？」她轉身看向Ilya，「Ilyusha?」
「Ladno.」
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Ilya躺在休息室的沙發上，後腦杓的頭髮被扶手蹭亂，空調嗡嗡地運轉，Svetlana關掉休息室的燈後暫時離開了。走廊的人影在門縫的光裡演著光影劇，交談聲與腳步聲在木門之外竊竊私語。他的手機滾到地毯上，時而震動，時而發亮，照亮沙發椅腳。他思緒萬千，無法肢解腦海的半語，他的指頭騰空顫抖，以為敲擊在琴鍵上，卻沒有琴聲。
Svetlana的聲音從門外傳來。
「我可以進來嗎？」
Ilya嘟囔。她推開門，開燈，Ilya把手臂靠在臉上遮住突如其來的光線，「有人送花來。」
「每次都有人送花，」他的聲音在手臂下顯得沉悶，「沒什麼特別的。」
Svetlana笑了，「噢，這個肯定不一樣。」她把花束放在沙發椅腳邊。「看過後再告訴我，你還想不想彈琴。」Svetlana又離開了，但她這次沒有關燈。
直到Ilya適應光線，他才睜開眼。四肢依然如灌鉛般沉重，指頭是磚頭，雙腳是鋼筋。他翻了身，差點滾落沙發，他的臉頰貼在沙發椅面邊緣，餘光瞥了眼手機螢幕。
他卻看見百合花。
一整束的白花與幾朵粉紅點綴，每一朵花都呈現喇叭狀，由中心向外優雅地展開，足足六片花瓣交錯排列，形成一個對稱的星形。有的花朵含苞待放，呈現修長的紡錘形，包裹著青綠的漸層，有的則完全盛開，花頭向側方舒展，盛開的花朵末端優雅地捲曲，露出中央纖細的花蕊。然後是帶著青草香的熟悉芬芳，早在Ilya察覺之前早已佔滿全室，他卻專注於自己僵直的軀體而遺漏了那無法忘懷的花香；那總是佔滿整間休息室，佔滿Ilya的公寓，直到枯萎，直到Ilya為了再度聞到相同的氣味而焦躁不安。
百合花束之中夾著一張卡片。Ilya拖著他無力的手，指尖捏起。
(✉️Picks up the card)
I am deeply sorry that I cannot attend your album launch concert tonight. I wanted to be there more than anything. After all, this is your first album, and I have been a loyal supporter ever since your very first debut in Montreal. I still carry the magic of that night with me.
Since this album was recorded live at Maison Symphonique, it feels incredibly precious to me. That hall is where I first heard you play, and the night of the recording was the very first time I gave you lilies in person. For those reasons, this music will always hold a sacred place in my heart.
It breaks my heart that I cannot be there to support you, but even from afar, I will be remembering the emotion of your performance. I hope these lilies can stand in my place today. I hope that even without me there, the piano won't feel "boring" for you today.
Your devoted fan, Shane
Ilya知道Shane去了北美巡演的每一場，但他並不知道Shane甚至聽過他在蒙特婁的出道演奏會。
出道演奏會的Ilya很緊張，但這不應該發生，因為自從十三歲開始公開演出，舞台恐懼症早已不是障礙，他卻因為Papa的一通越洋電話而心慌。如果北美出道失敗，他就得回去莫斯科發展。Ilya並非討厭俄羅斯的觀眾，而是……其他的原因，所以當Svetlana邀請他去北美，他二話不說答應了。最終，Ilya卯足全力演奏，只是為了不回國而努力獲得加拿大觀眾的青睞，但是一部分的自己卻在那次演奏後彷彿掏空。
Ilya從三歲開始學琴，那時候Mama還會跟他坐在同一張琴凳上，他卻在七歲的第一場小型演奏會怯場。然後他加入Papa要求的兒童冰球隊，他甚至拿了U13獎牌，得到Mama在他臉頰上的一個虛弱親吻。葬禮當晚，他再度摸了琴鍵，他的指腹沾著灰塵，彈了自從Mama臥床後再也沒有彈過的舒曼的Dreaming。
那天以後，直到Ilya離開俄羅斯，Mama的鋼琴再也沒有積過灰塵。
Mama是他彈琴的初衷、動力與情感之源，他究竟是為了什麼而彈琴？蒙特婁的出道演奏會後，Ilya第一次沒有答案。Jane的百合花填補了那個空虛與疑問，一個從未缺席的花束，彷彿無論他在演奏中彈錯多少失誤、偏離預定曲目、亂無章法，他都能在演出結束後看見恆久不變的百合。
Ilya登台的理由變了，他彈奏Dreaming的時候仍會想起Mama的身影，但現在，他會記起Shane曾經淚水盈眶，聽懂了他琴聲裡的悲傷，坐在舞台下卻觸摸了他的內心。
「Ilyusha，」敲門聲讓他回神，「十分鐘後上台。」
Ilya坐起，盯著木門。空調依然嗡嗡運轉，手機在地毯上震動，走廊的交談聲與腳步聲頻繁；卡片的粗糙質感卻從指腹傳來，百合花香滲入他的鼻腔。每一次呼吸仍像困在山壁裡那般困難，身體像裹了一層鏽紅的鐵，關節難以轉動。
I hope that even without me there, the piano won't feel "boring" for you today.
It won't, for now.
Shane暫時偷走了Ilya的思緒萬千，他得以推動生鏽的身體，忍受腦海中刺耳的噪音。Ilya將Shane的卡片收進西裝外套的內袋，貼在左胸前，他會帶著Shane的話語登台，即使Shane今晚不在，他仍為Shane彈奏，負重前行。
Ilya登台了。
－
演出結束後，Ilya躺了兩天。Svetlana知道這是強行要求他的代價，所以她讓他一個人待著，只是定期送食物到公寓，順便看看他。她拿著遙控器，煩躁都從電視畫面的頻繁切換中透露出來，Ilya躺在沙發上吃著薄餅。
然後Ilya聽到她倒抽一口氣也沒有理會，因為薄餅的碎屑從領口掉進胸前，惹得刺癢。
「我知道他為什麼不能來了。」
「誰？」他用指腹黏著碎屑，放進嘴裡。
Ilya始終沒等到回覆，他抬頭看向她，Svetlana對著電視睜目結舌，然後他聽到──
「...and SCORES!! Shane Hollander!!」
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fav #1 fan💐Shane
S: Hope you like the lilies.
S: Best wishes for the concert.
FRI, 6:43 PM
I: Really wish you were here.
I: I love the lilies, thank you.
FRI, 10:10 PM
S: How was the concert?
Today, 8:02 PM
I: Shane.
I: You are Shane Hollander, MHL hockey player.
S: Howdid
S: Oh You watched the game? And btw I won that day. If that can make up for not being able to make the concert.
I: No.
I: Fine. It can.
Ilya looked up at the highlight reel. On the screen, Shane had just scored another goal off an assist, the camera zooming in on his radiant smile.
Ilya抬頭看了一眼球賽的精彩重播，Shane在助攻下又進了一球，鏡頭特寫了他的笑容。
I: You look pretty even playing hockey.
S: ???
S: Why you said that?
I: If it make you uncomfortable, I stop.
S: No, it's ok. It's just... so sudden???
I: Not sudden. I always think so, ever since I first see you.
S: OH.
I: You dont have anything else to say back?
S: Well, what do you want to hear?
S: Uh, I also think you're handsome?
I: Just handsome? I am famous pianist after all.
S: Ha ha, right.
S: I like how focused you are when you're playing.
I: Every pianist do that. You learn these pickup lines from book? Hollander?
S: Asshole. I mean it.
S: You immerse yourself in the rhythm, enjoying every ending of every measure, pouring your heart into the music. Sometimes you have this smug look on your face, like even you're impressed by how well you just played. Sometimes you seem to lose control, forgetting we're even there in the audience, as if the music is your entire world.
I: Okay.
S: You only replied OKAY??? I said so much!!
I: I dont know how to respond. Is... too much... I cant find a word.
S: Indescribable?
I: Yes, indescribable.
I: It is so great to have you as my fan.
S: Who are you? Rozanov wouldn't say something like that.
I: I am "perfect" pianist. Not only play well, but say nice things to fans. And my #1 fan is greedy, yet I willingly continue to serve him.
S: Fuck off.
公寓充滿百合花香，Shane送的百合仍盛開著，幾個花苞在這兩天裡展開了，Ilya在家休養的這段時間，他每天都會在花瓶旁繞一繞，將百合花香沾在自己身上。
The apartment was thick with the scent of lilies.
Shane's flowers were still in full bloom, a few more buds had unfurled over the past two days. During Ilya's recovery at home, he found himself circling the vase every day, letting the fragrance cling to his skin like a physical embrace.
I: Thank you again for the lilies and the card.
S: I'm glad you liked them.
I: I prefer you deliver in person, but you busy delivering those losers home crying, so I compromise.
S: That was an away game... they were already home.
I: Yeah, you do deliver several pucks into their "backdoor".
S: OKAY. THAT'S ENOUGH.
I: Cant stop chirping. This is essence of hockey. I know.
S: Oh? So I should let you be my winger then.
I: I was center. So you be my winger.
S: Wait. Are you serious?
I: I won U13 back in Russia. Long time ago.
I: For a MHL star like you, is insignificant. Let's dont talk about it.
S: Wow. I... didn't expect that.
I: Who know Im so PERFECT? I still amaze my fans this day.
S: Knock it off. Or I'll never say you are perfect again.
I: So sad my devoted fan dont think I am perfect anymore.
I: Because my soft hands handle a HOCKEY STICK as perfect as play piano.
S: OKAY STOP.
I: Why you blushing, Hollander? I can hear it in your typing.
S: I AM NOT BLUSHING. I'M GOING TO SLEEP.
I: Thinking about my finger-work in bed? Nasty boy.
S: ISAYSTOP
－－－
Ilya knew the moment he woke up that the entire day was wrong.
His alarm rang three times, each until it gave up. Before the fourth cycle ended, he hurled his phone into the corner of the room and buried himself under the covers.
His limbs were lifeless, his muscles tight, it felt as if cement were flowing through his veins, pinning him down. Every breath was a struggle against a boulder on his chest. His back pressed against cold rock. His luxury mattress and duvet felt like unreasonable mountain walls, crushing him in between.
The phone rang again. A call, not an alarm. Ilya didn't know how long it had been since the alarms gave up on him, but the sky outside was a deeper shade of orange than before. He ignored the ringing.
Svetlana's shouting filled the house. The thunderous pounding on his door wasn't even as loud as the thumping of his own heart.
Then, she stormed into his bedroom, dragged him out of bed, and shoved him into the bathroom. He sat in a half-filled tub, still in his boxers. While he stumbled around wrapped in a towel, Svetlana practically tore his walk-in closet apart, throwing out a suit and leather shoes. She stared him down until he put them on. It wasn't until she shoved a ham and cheese sandwich and a thermos smelling of bitter coffee into his hands and pushed him into the backseat of the car, only after she glanced at him through the rearview mirror, did Ilya speak his first words of the day.
"I don't want play."
"Okh... Ilyusha..." Ilya avoided her gaze in the rearview mirror. "Is this because of Jane? Or are you hungover from last night?"
"No drink."
"So, it's because of Jane."
"I just don't want play."
"Ilyusha... we can push the start back thirty minutes, but canceling... many people be disappointed," she sighed. "Jane will be, too."
"SHANE IS NOT EVEN COMING!" Ilya's voice was perhaps the most forceful it had been all day.
"At least stay with me until we get to the hall. If you still don't want to play before you go on stage, we'll cancel, okay?" She turned around to look at him. "Ilyusha?"
"Fine."
－
Ilya lay on the dressing room sofa, the hair at the back of his head mussed from rubbing against the armrest. The air conditioner droned on, a low, mechanical hum. After Svetlana turned off the lights and left, the shadows of figures in the hallway played out a silent drama through the crack beneath the door, their muffled voices and footsteps whispering just beyond the wood. His phone had rolled onto the carpet. It vibrated and glowed intermittently, a flickering beacon illuminating the legs of the sofa. His mind was a whirlwind of fragments he couldn't dissect. His fingers twitched in the air, phantom movements as if striking keys, but there was no sound.
Svetlana's voice came from the other side of the door.
"Can I come in?"
Ilya grunted. She pushed the door open and flicked the light on. Ilya shielded his eyes with his arm against the sudden glare. "Someone sent flowers."
"Someone always sends flowers," his voice was muffled beneath his arm, dull and flat. "It's nothing special."
Svetlana smiled. "Oh, this 'someone' is definitely special." She set the bouquet down by the foot of the sofa. "Look at them, then tell me if you still don’t want to play." She left again, but this time, she left the light on.
It took a moment for Ilya to adjust to the light. When he finally opened his eyes, his limbs still felt as though they were filled with lead, fingers like bricks, feet like rebar. He rolled over, nearly tumbling off the sofa, his cheek pressed against the edge of the cushion. His gaze drifted past his phone screen.
And then, he saw the lilies.
A massive bouquet of white blossoms with subtle pink accents. Each flower was trumpet-shaped, unfurling elegantly from the center in six symmetric petals that formed a perfect star. Some were still buds, slender green spindles with soft gradients. While others were in full bloom, their heads swaying gracefully to the side, petal tips curling back to reveal delicate, slender stamens.
Then came the scent: that familiar, grassy fragrance. It had filled the room long before Ilya noticed, but he had been too consumed by his own rigid body to realize it. This was the scent that always occupied his dressing room, his apartment, until it withered, leaving him restless and anxious for its return.
A card was tucked among the lilies. Ilya dragged his strengthless hand toward it, his fingertips finally pinching the edge.
(Picks up the card)
＊
Ilya knew Shane had attended every concert of the North American tour, but he had no idea Shane had been there from the very beginning—at his Montreal debut.
He had been so nervous that night. It shouldn't have happened. He'd been performing since he was thirteen, and stage fright was supposed to be a ghost of the past. But a trans-atlantic call from Papa had unraveled him. Failure in North America means returning to Moscow. It wasn't that Ilya hated the Russian audience, it was… other reasons.
He had accepted Svetlana's invitation to the North America without a second thought. That night in Montreal, he had played with every ounce of his soul just to earn the favor of the Canadian crowd—not for the art, but for his survival.
After the final note, a part of him felt utterly hollow.
Ilya had started piano at three, sitting on the same bench as Mama. Yet, he'd frozen during his first recital at seven. To toughen him up, Papa had forced him onto a youth hockey team. He'd even won a U13 medal, earning a frail, weak kiss on the cheek from Mama. But on the night of her funeral, he touched the keys again. His fingertips were stained with dust as he played Schumann's Dreaming, the piece he hadn't dared to touch since Mama became bedridden.
From that day until he left Russia, Mama's piano never gathered dust again.
Mama had been his reason, his drive, his source of emotion. But after that Montreal debut, for the first time in his life, Ilya had no answer to the question: Why do I play?
Shane's lilies had filled that void.
The bouquets were a constant, a steady anchor. It felt as if no matter how many mistakes Ilya made, how far he strayed from the score, or how chaotic his mind became, those lilies would always be there waiting for him at the end.
His reason for taking the stage had changed. When he played Dreaming now, he still saw Mama's shadow, but he also remembered Shane, eyes brimming with tears, truly hearing the grief in the music.
Shane sat in the audience, yet he had reached out and touched Ilya's heart.
"Ilyusha," a knock on the door pulled him back. "Ten minutes until you're on."
Ilya sat up, staring at the wooden door. The AC continued its monotonous drone. His phone vibrated on the carpet. The muffled chatter in the hallway persisted. Yet, it was the rough texture of the card against his fingertips and the scent of lilies in his lungs that felt real.
Every breath was still a struggle against the mountain walls of his chest. His body felt encased in a layer of rusted iron, his joints nearly impossible to move.
I hope that even without me there, the piano won't feel "boring" for you today.
It won't. For now.
Shane had momentarily stolen the chaos of his thoughts, giving him just enough leverage to push his rusted body forward, ignoring the screeching friction in his mind. Ilya tucked the card into the inner pocket of his suit jacket, pressing it against the left side of his chest. He would carry Shane’s words onto the stage. Even if Shane wasn't there tonight, Ilya would play for him. He would carry the weight.
Ilya took the stage.
－
After the performance, Ilya crashed for two whole days. Svetlana knew this was the price of forcing him onto that stage, so she gave him his space, only dropping by his apartment to bring food and check if he was still breathing.
She sat there, her irritability leaking through the frantic channel-flipping of the remote. Ilya was sprawled on the sofa, listlessly picking at a plate of blini.
He heard her sharp intake of breath but didn't bother to look up. A stray crumb had fallen down the collar of his shirt, itching against his chest.
"I know why he couldn't make it," she said, her voice strained.
"Who?" Ilya murmured. He pressed his fingertip against a crumb on his chest and brought it to his lips.
The silence that followed was heavy. When no answer came, Ilya finally lifted his head. Svetlana was staring at the television, her jaw dropped in total disbelief.
Then, the announcer's roar erupted from the speakers—
"...and SCORES!! SHANE HOLLANDER!!"
＊
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