Chapter Text
Shane doesn't even try to sleep.
He shuts the door of the hotel room behind him, heaves a sigh and just— thinks. He can't sleep on that goddamn bed. He can't look at Ilya's suitcase, Ilya's charger still plucked into the wall, Ilya's book still resting on top of the bedside table. He can't lie on the bed and think about his husband and his whereabouts.
No one knows where he is. No one knows where he could be. He's probably hurt, scared and alone.
He's all alone, out there, and Shane's hands ache as they curl around the emptiness of their hotel room.
He sits on the floor and cries.
That's all he can do.
He can't go back to the desert and walk and walk and walk until his feet disappear from under him, he can't knock on every single door there is until his husband opens. He thought he knew helplessness— he's watched his life pass without feeling like he could control the way it waved and ebbed and flowed, while he was stuck behind a wall of fear and expectations and paralysis. But this is a thousand times worse, this is every single possibility getting away from him, this is hope slipping through his fingers, black sand fading away into the wind.
They all agreed they would go back to searching tomorrow. The police are already looking into it— they've already set an itinerary to start their search for Ilya. They're supposed to cover all the places he could've gotten to in a day, including the chance he might have hitched a ride somewhere. The news is still projecting his face, still encouraging people to reach out.
It feels like nothing.
Because it's late and the sun's hidden and there's no moon out there tonight, and the desert is vast and empty and Ilya could be anywhere, he could be getting goddamn killed in this same instant, and Shane is here, in this empty hotel room, and he doesn't even know how many miles separate them.
He leans his head against the wall and swallows the tears running down his face.
He can't remember the last time he cried alone.
Ever since they started dating, Ilya has always been there for him, one way or another, through a phone screen or a text or right beside him, his arms around his shoulders, his soft lips murmuring against his hair.
Shane's all alone as well.
They're both alone, and that fact breaks Shane's heart into so many pieces he's pretty sure he'll never be able to stitch them back together.
*
Troy knocks on his door the next morning.
Shane's still sitting down on the floor. His legs have gone numb, his head is pounding and his eyes are so swollen they kind of hurt. He hasn't even changed clothes, hasn't taken a shower— it all feels impossible right now.
His parents are supposed to come down to Vegas. Shane's not sure if they managed to get a flight yet. Svetlana is also arriving today.
They had a game tomorrow. It can't be cancelled, because they're in the middle of the playoffs, and the show must go on or whatever, but at least the NHL agreed to move it to the day after. Shane couldn't care less, but it means the team is leaving tomorrow. With or without Ilya.
"Shane," a voice calls.
Right. Troy.
He stands up, cringes at the way his body protests, rubs his face with the back of his hand and takes a deep breath. He opens the door.
Troy blinks at him. Shane can't help but think he looks disappointed. Defeated.
"Hi," he croaks out, and the sound of his wrecked voice is almost funny.
"I'm not even going to ask if you slept at all. I'm just here to make sure you eat something before we head out."
He shrugs. He doesn't bother showering or changing, he just makes sure his phone is in his pocket and walks with Troy to the hotel restaurant.
Shane's surprised to find most of the team already there. They give him friendly pats and a couple of words that he knows are trying to be reassuring. At least no one tries to hug him. He's pretty sure he would have a complete meltdown if that were to happen.
He appreciates the team's effort to cheer him up— fuck, he's so goddamn grateful for the way everyone seems dead set on getting his husband back. Shane knows they all care about Ilya— he would even dare to say they all love him. Ilya's always been a good captain, a great friend. Shane admires him in that way— even if he can bond with the team, he can't bring them together like Ilya does. He can't make them laugh like Ilya does. He can't make them feel like a family like Ilya does.
In a way, they're all lost without him.
He eats, even if every single bite feels like ash in his mouth. He texts his parents and Svetlana. His parents will arrive late at night, and Svetlana around one or two in the afternoon. Shane could cry with relief.
He follows Wyatt, Luca, Troy and Wiebe to the same rental car as yesterday, gets in, and tries to focus on the plan— separate into groups, scan the highways and the nearby towns and search and search and search.
All he can think about is the fact that Ilya didn't take his wedding ring to the party.
"Here," he had said that night before leaving, handing it to him. "Will you hold on to it for me?"
"Why don't you take it?" Shane had asked. Ilya always wore his ring— either on his finger or in his necklace, right next to his cross. Shane always wore his too— had even bought a necklace to wear it during games or workouts.
"It doesn't go with my costume."
"Asshole."
Ilya had laughed. "It's just that I don't want anything to happen to it. You'll give it back as soon as I return, Hollander, don't worry."
Shane's wearing his own ring, even if it feels like a cruel, constant punch to his throat. He can't even fathom the idea of taking it off right now.
Ilya's is on the safe box back in their hotel room. He's not taking it out unless it's to hand it to him, like he was supposed to.
There is no other option.
*
The morning goes by in a blur. Suddenly it's around noon and there's still no trace of Ilya.
His phone has been constantly buzzing— he's gotten two or three calls from Officer Olsen and there's constant texting in the Centaurs group chat. The Nevada desert is huge, and even though Amargosa Valley is relatively small and doesn't have a lot of towns, there's still a lot of places to look at. They stop at hospitals and Urgent Cares and diners and gas stations, at every single business they can spot; they ask around town centers even if the towns have no more than a thousand people.
They're driving around the edge of it— near Death Valley, which sounds fucking ominous, when the call comes.
It's Dykstra.
Shane's thumb shakes a little as he slides to accept the call on his phone.
"Evan—"
"Shane. We found him."
His fingers drop his phone. He barely manages to catch it, and his heartbeat is wild against his ribs, pounding and pounding and pounding and Shane feels like he's going to die.
"Shane?" Luca calls from the backseat. "What happened?"
"Um—" Shane speaks into the phone and his voice shakes so bad it's like he's barely talking at all. "What?"
Jesus.
They found him.
They found his husband.
"We found him, Hollander!" Dykstra repeats, and his laugh is heavy and light at the same time, full of relief. "Bood and I got him. We're waiting for the ambulance."
Jesus.
Shane can't even think.
"Ambulance?"
"He's— well, he's not okay, but he was talking and asking about you. He's fine, Shane, he's going to be just fine."
"Oh my god," he lets out, and then he's sobbing too hard to continue the conversation. He’s pretty sure he drops his phone again.
Wyatt squeezes his shoulder and takes the phone from his lap. Wiebe's right hand is pressing against his thigh. Luca and Troy are talking from the backseat— Shane's brain can't process their words. He can't process anything.
He's aware of Wyatt talking on the phone, aware of Luca and Troy trying to talk him through his sobs —“It's okay, Shane, everything's okay.”— but Shane doesn't care.
He cries and he wonders how it is possible for him to still have any tears left.
He cries because he is not crying in front of Ilya, not when he's going to need to be strong for him, not when he has no idea what he's been through in the last 30 hours or so. He just needs to— let it all out. Then he can wash his face and deal with everything else.
"Hey, Shane," Wyatt grabs his shoulder again, a little bit firmer, and his eyes are serious and covered in unshed tears. "They're waiting for the ambulance to arrive," he explains, and he's speaking really slowly, as if talking to a spooked animal. "Bood thinks they're going to take him to a hospital in Vegas. We're an hour and a half from there, and around an hour from where they are, so we're going straight to the hospital."
Wait.
Fuck.
"Ilya," he manages to say. "Can I— Can I talk to him?"
Wyatt winces. "Dykstra says they found him in a diner— he spoke a little but then he passed out. He's still out of it. But he's breathing, and he's not— bleeding or anything."
Passed out. Ilya is unconscious. Shane keeps on crying.
He doesn't know how he's going to get himself to stop.
"Wait," Wyatt presses the phone against his ear and then nods. "Bood wants to talk to you, here."
"Shane," Bood's voice is shaky as well. "We've got him. But- um- Ilya wanted me to tell you something. He was really stressing about it."
"What- what is it?"
"He asked me to tell you that he- um- he said something about keeping his promise."
He kept his promise.
Ilya swore to never leave him. He swore, and he kept his oath, and Shane's so grateful he doesn't even know what to say. Who to thank.
So he just nods and keeps on crying.
He's not a believer. God is an odd concept to him— a thing he's always been too busy to think about. He doesn't need the comfort of a deity- he's got his family and his hands and his body and everything that happens has always felt like his responsibility and nothing more than that.
Now, though, he closes his eyes for a second and thanks whoever might be listening.
'Thank you,' he thinks, and he means it so much it hurts. 'Thank you, thank you, thank you, for bringing him back to me.'
Shane hopes, for a second, that if something or someone is listening, it is Irina.
*
They get back to Las Vegas in 98 minutes. Shane counted.
He spent those 98 minutes taking turns between sobbing and reaching out to the police and his parents and Svetlana and even Farah.
By the time the ambulance arrived, Ilya had still been unconscious, and the paramedics hadn't allowed Dykstra or Bood to ride with them.
But Ilya's alive. Ilya is, for the first time in so goddamn long, safe.
It feels a little selfish, and maybe even naive, but nothing else matters right now. Whatever injury, whatever damage, Shane can deal with. He can hold his husband and stitch him back together and take care of him for the rest of his life. He can do anything, he would trade anything, as long as Ilya is there, by his side, breathing and smiling and alive. So full of life he holds Shane's own behind his chest, nestled inside him.
He had said that to Ilya a month ago, after that night, and he's thought about it a lot— even with his own therapist. But, even if he understands that he was desperate and hurting and afraid and that his words weren't exactly the right ones, he doesn't regret what he said.
It's the truth.
He would be nothing without Ilya. There is no Shane Hollander without Ilya Rozanov, there is no life beyond his husband. He feels like there never has been— he's made of shards of love, glued together through the years. He was made to love him, and without that he has no purpose.
Because he knows life would go on, without Ilya in it. There would still be hockey games and family dinners and Hayden and Rose and all the friends he's made along the way. He'd still have his talent and his passion and his team. He's aware that life is more than his husband. He's aware he is more than his husband. Life would still be there, and it could maybe, just maybe, still be good.
But Shane has thought about this a lot, ever since Ilya confessed he was, maybe, like his mother, almost two years ago. He's thought about his husband's funeral and his eulogy, and he's imagined himself leaving a single rose on top of his coffin, has imagined himself dropping to his knees in the middle of the cemetery and screaming until he spit his lungs out. He's imagined himself finding Ilya's body— has imagined what his suicide letter would say.
And it is horrible, it is terrifying, and it is heartbreaking, but it is something he has had to think about, because his mind is treacherous and cruel and because even if he doesn't know how to deal with it sometimes, he knows Ilya's sick. He knows it could be better, but it also could be worse, and he's always been an overthinker.
And he knows life would go on. He knows that, biologically, they don't share a heartbeat, a life, a soul.
He just doesn't want that life.
He knows he could have it. But a life without Ilya Rozanov in it is a colorless one, one he doesn't want to live through. Being able to do something and wanting to are two very different things, and Shane knows it.
So, yeah, he meant it. If Ilya ever— did that, or if something happened to him— it might as well be happening to Shane too.
Because his life ends where Ilya's does. His life begins where Ilya's does.
He doesn't believe in soulmates, not really, but he's pretty sure Ilya and him share something different— something deeper. Ilya's his everything, and he knows he's Ilya's everything, and together, they're whole. Complete.
That's what they are. One.
A Shane without Ilya is still a Shane, but one that does not make sense. One that doesn't live, not really.
God, he loves him so much he wonders how his heart and his brain and his body are capable of holding it together. Sometimes, late at night, when he feels nothing but Ilya's skin against his own, he feels like he's going to burst with all the love he feels.
So. Yeah. As long as Ilya is alive, Shane is too.
And he can deal with anything else.
Shane runs through the main hall of the hospital.
His team and his coach are behind him, but they let him go ahead. He stumbles out his name and Ilya's and then Dykstra's there. He looks pale and shaky but he's smiling, and Shane lets himself be hugged just because he and Bood found him, they found his husband, and Shane could kiss him.
In the cheek.
"Here," Dykstra says, "let me take you to him."
Shane follows him to the emergency triage section. He walks to a small cubicle with the curtains drawn and stops, holding the curtain open for Shane to walk through. His whole body is shaking and the hospital seems a little blurry— maybe he really should have slept. He doesn't care.
He's about to see Ilya.
Ilya, who is sitting up as much as he can, leaning against a small hospital bed. Ilya, whose face is so swollen it takes his breath away. Ilya, whose eyes are barely open.
Ilya, his husband, who has a smile dancing on his lips, the same way he always does when he sees him.
"Hollander," he says, but it's so soft Shane feels like he's melting. "I just had the worst day ever."
"Is that so?" Shane answers, and his legs are shaking so bad he has to sit down on the edge of Ilya's bed. "Ten bucks on me having a worse one."
*
Ilya's memory is hazy. He can't really remember anything between the diner and the hospital— his head is pounding, and that's pretty much the only thing he can think about. There's a young nurse setting up an IV in the back of his hand, and they're doing tests he's barely awake for. He answers whatever questions the doctors ask and he swallows back the nausea twirling at the back of his throat.
Bood and Dykstra are there, and he doesn't really feel like talking, but he answers a couple of their questions as well.
"You unlucky son of a bitch," Bood's laugh sounds shallow— his amusement is mixed with something Ilya thinks is anger. "They confused you for another russian?"
"Yeah," and he laughs a little too, because he's allowed to find it funny. "I'm hiring a witch to do a spiritual cleansing on me or something."
Dykstra blinks. "I don't know if that's you hallucinating or not, Roz."
Ilya shrugs and then winces when it hurts his shoulder. "I guess you'll never know."
They stay in silence for a bit. Ilya still feels lost and confused and so goddamn tired, but he wants to be awake when Shane gets there. Bood said he was close— maybe ten minutes away or so. His teammate offered to call Shane, but Ilya thinks he'd rather speak to him in person. Shane knows he's okay— or, well, maybe not completely okay, but he's safe. That should be enough until he gets to see him with his own two eyes.
"I'm gonna go wait for the guys," Dykstra pats Ilya's head awkwardly and Ilya can't help but smile a little. He's not delirious –at least he's pretty sure he's not— but the whole situation seems a little funny now.
Ridiculous.
It's so ridiculous.
Ilya laughs in order not to cry.
"Why are you laughing, Rozanov?" Bood asks. Ilya shakes his head.
"I just— this whole thing was ridiculous, you know? I was wearing a jedi costume."
Bood smiles, but it's tight. Ilya doesn't want to make him uncomfortable, and he's too tired to explain himself, so he shuts up.
Then there's hurried footsteps and he knows it's not possible, not really, but he firmly believes the sound of them is familiar enough to recognize his husband. It's like the whole ambiance shifts around him, and he just knows Shane is nearby. Shane is here.
And he looks terrible.
"Hollander," he says, and he realizes his voice sounds weak and soft, a whisper heavy with sentiment, a truth extracted from his heart and lungs. "I just had the worst day ever."
Shane takes a couple of steps towards him, and then he sits on the edge of his small hospital bed. He's visibly shaking, and his eyes are covered in tears he cannot rub off his face. "Is that so? Ten bucks on me having a worse one."
"I'm sorry," Ilya tries raising his arm towards him, tries to touch him, to show him he's there, that he made it, he fought and he walked and he even listened to the constant voice of his father, the one he usually manages to keep at bay. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart."
Shane shakes his head with an incredulous smile and blinks back the tears Ilya knows it's killing him not to spill. He grabs his hand, and Ilya squeezes and tries to say something else but then Shane's hugging him, and it hurts but in the best way possible, and he could take all the pain in the world if it meant hugging his husband. He could let it hurt forever.
"I'm sorry," he repeats.
"I'm so— so goddamn glad you're okay." Shane's words are barely understandable, his voice trembling with the unshed tears trapped behind his eyes. Ilya knows Shane always struggles with words when he's overwhelmed, and he doesn't want him to struggle more, so he shushes him.
"I’m okay. I'm fine, Shane. I promised, remember?"
"You promised."
"I did."
Ilya did. And he's never going to break that promise, no matter what.
But he's tired, and everything hurts and he's still so goddamn hot. The doctors said something about stabilizing him before they took him for x-rays for his nose and his ribs and his shoulder and he just wants to sleep.
He must sag a little against Shane, because he backs away from the hug, still holding his hand. He squeezes once more, and Ilya tries to squeeze back, but his fingers feel heavy and foreign.
"We're okay," Shane mutters, and his voice is so determined Ilya believes him. It seems like Shane's saying it to convince himself as well. "We're okay, baby. Just rest, okay? I'll deal with everything else."
Ilya can do that.
He's pretty sure he can't do anything else.
Shane deposits a tender kiss on top of his head and hovers there for a long minute. Ilya basks in its warmth. He closes his eyes.
"Thank you," he hears Shane saying. "For keeping your promise. Thank you, thank you, thank you."
Ilya falls asleep before he can answer.
*
He wakes up to Svetlana's voice and Shane's hand still warm and firm on top of his own.
"Ilyusha," Sveta says in quiet russian. "If you ever do that again—"
"I know, I know."
Shane is asleep on a chair. They're no longer in the emergency department— this is a new, private room. It's not specifically big, but it's more comfortable than triage cubicle. At least they have nice armchairs where Shane can sleep a bit.
She smiles a little. Her hand is cold and sweaty as she caresses his hair with her fingers. "No one is going to hurt you," and Ilya didn't know he needed to hear it, but as soon as she says it, he can feel his heart unclenching a bit. "I don't know if Zane and Evan told you, but they got the men who did this. All three of them. They're never coming near you again."
He sincerely can't remember if Bood or Dykstra told him that. But it feels good to know.
"I hurt one," and he doesn't know why he cares, but he still does. "I— I shot him. It was barely a graze but—," god, his throat is dry. He feels floaty and far away, so he knows he's probably on a lot of drugs. "Is he okay?"
Svetlana nods. Her fingers are still on his hair, and it feels good. He just wants to keep on sleeping.
"Not that you should care, but yes. He's fine. The one Shane beat the shit out of is also okay."
Shane did what?
"Shane did what?"
"Oh, your husband went crazy, Ilyusha. Good for him, honestly. I think he deserved it."
Ilya blinks and blinks again. He has so many questions, but he's too tired to make them.
A thought pops into his brain, and he tries to pat his pockets and then he realizes his left arm is tightly secured in a sling and that he's wearing a hospital gown.
"There was a piece of paper," he says, and he knows he sounds scared, but he doesn't care. Shane shifts from the armchair— Ilya woke him up. "In my pocket, there was a piece of paper. With a number on it. Where is it?"
"What?" Shane slurs.
"Where— where is it?" Ilya switches to english. He tries to get up, but his body's still heavy and sore and his ribs scream in protest. Shane places the palm of his hand on his chest, pushing him down.
"Don't move, baby, you're hurt. What's going on?" Shane looks up at Svetlana, who looks as confused as Shane.
"I don't know. What pocket, Ilya?"
"The sweatpants I was wearing— there was a piece of paper in their pocket."
"Let me check your things," Shane stands up to the side of the room where there's a small closet. He grabs the sweatpants Ramiro gave to him and starts searching. "Whose pants are these?" His husband turns around, frowning. "And whose hoodie— Ilya, what the hell?"
"A man and his wife— they found me. They helped me. He gave me his number, I need to thank them, Shane, I need to help them."
"Ilya, you need to relax, okay? Whatever it is, we'll deal with it. Here, found it."
Ilya sighs with relief. He's not even sure how he can help Ramiro and Otilia, but he sure as hell going to try. Shane gets back to his side, sitting down in the armchair again. The bags under his eyes are pretty impressive, and he still looks deathly pale.
"You look like shit." Ilya states, and if it comes out blunt it's because he still feels hazy. "You should— go get some rest. I'm okay."
Shane huffs and rolls his eyes. "Yeah, sure. You're not looking much better, Rozanov. And I'm not going anywhere."
Ilya knew it.
It still feels nice, confirming it.
He closes his eyes for a second— at least, for what feels like a second, but when he opens them again, the sun's gone, and the artificial lights of the room make his eyes hurt.
Shane's not there, it's the first thing he notices. The second one is that the room's crowded with way too many hockey players.
There's Troy and Luca, sitting in the armchairs. Wyatt and Bood and Dykstra, Wiebe and Harris are standing near the door, leaning against the wall. They're all talking to each other in soft whispers.
"Ilya?"
Once again, Ilya is a little amazed at how young Luca looks. He doesn't know why, but he wonders if he looked that young too when he was that age. He's always felt old.
"Hi, Haasy. Are you okay?"
Luca frowns. He seems so upset it looks like he's going to stomp his foot and storm out. It makes him want to smile.
"Are you really asking me if I'm okay?"
The rest of the team are also smiling a little. Ilya can sense their worried postures and frayed nerves- he's going to have to apologize a lot. He just wishes he could do it later. When he doesn't feel like he got ran over by a car. Or like he jumped off one.
And he wandered for hours in the desert after that.
"I did, yes."
"You're an asshole, Rozy."
Ilya nods. "So I've been told, yes."
He lets Luca carefully hug him. He really likes the kid— he reminds him of Shane, sometimes. He's smart and incredibly good, but he can also get lost in his own head sometimes. Ilya's always been good at making people uncomfortable, though, and he feels like Luca needs that.
"I'm really sorry this happened to you," Luca whispers before stepping back from the hug. Ilya looks up at Wyatt, and sees his sheepish look. He sighs.
"This is not your fault," he replies. "I mean it, Haasy, I just have the worst luck ever."
Luca nods. "Okay. Okay."
Ilya lets them make small talk, lets them make a couple of jokes and tries to laugh at them.
"Where's Shane?"
"Oh, his parents just got here. They took him and Svetlana to the hotel to clean up and get some dinner," Troy answers.
"Good," Ilya tries to sit up a little, and then he remembers he's hurt hurt, and has to bite his tongue not to growl in pain. He's definitely not doing that in front of his teammates. "Now, stop looking like kicked puppies and start thinking how we're going to win the next playoff round."
Wyatt laughs a little. "No one has been thinking about hockey lately, cap."
"Well, you should have. That's your job."
Shane comes back some minutes later. He looks a little bit better- his hair is damp and shiny. His playoff beard is small and adorable. He's wearing a T-shirt Ilya's pretty sure is his own. He sits in the armchair and takes his hand without saying a single word.
"Alright," Ilya forces himself to smile. To look cheerful. He's done worrying the people that care about him. "You guys should head back to the hotel. I'm pretty sure this is really boring, and I'm fine. No longer missing."
Bood rolls his eyes. "Not funny, Rozanov. But okay, if you insist."
The team heads out. Luca is the last one to leave the room, and hovers by the door for a second.
"I'm really glad you're okay, Ilya," he says. Ilya swallows a lump in his throat. "Please take care."
"I will, Haasy. Don't you worry about me."
Once he's gone, Shane leans over to kiss him on the lips. Ilya lets himself melt into it.
"My parents and Svetlana stayed at the hotel. We didn't want to overwhelm you. And before you even try to suggest it, no, I'm not going anywhere."
"Shane. You really should rest. I'm fine, I promise."
Shane's expression shifts. "Shut up. You don't get to do that, not now."
"Do what?"
"Pretend. Not after this, Ilya. You need me. And I need you, okay? This is more for me than for you, I think. I can't- I can't be away from you right now, okay? I can't."
His words jab painfully at Ilya's heart.
"Okay, sweetheart. Okay. Stay, then."
"I'm not going anywhere."
"I know."
"You're not going anywhere either."
"I'm not, love."
Shane nods, like he's trying to bring himself to believe it.
"We're fine."
"We're fine."
*
A lot of things happen in the next few days.
The doctors tell him he's fine to start taking his medication again. They tell him that, even if his nose is broken, he won't need surgery to fix it -good news, at least-, but yeah, he's definitely out for the rest of the playoffs. He wasn't expecting otherwise, really, but it still sucks to hear the confirmation.
The team leaves. Shane stays.
They lose the first game of round three. After everything that's happened, he thinks it would have been an actual miracle if they won.
He gives his statement to the police. He leaves Ramiro's and Otilia's names and location out of it. Shane holds his hand through it all, even if Ilya insisted he didn't need it. Once he's done, he realizes that maybe he was wrong.
Yuna gets him the phone number of a good immigrant lawyer. He calls Ramiro and gives him her info— he'll pay for everything. It's the least he can do.
"I saw the hockey game," Ramiro says through the phone. "You lost."
"That's because I wasn't playing."
Ramiro laughs and Ilya does too, even if it hurts.
Svetlana leaves. She has work to do in Boston, but she buys him a ridiculous teddy bear dressed as a cowboy.
"Call me if you need anything."
"I will."
She shakes her head. "I mean it, Ilya. You're not alone in this, okay?"
Ilya shrugs. "It wasn't that bad."
Sveta rolls her eyes and kisses his forehead.
Shane gives him his ring back.
Ilya's left hand is still tightly secure in the sling, so he lets Shane hang it on his necklace and Ilya kisses it before letting it drop on top of his chest.
"I love you," Shane mutters.
"I love you more."
He gets cleared to fly on the third day. Shane tries to convince him to wait a little longer before they take a flight, but Ilya refuses.
"I want to go back home. I want to see Anya and sleep in our bed, and I want to fucking leave Las Vegas."
Shane folds at that.
It sucks.
They fixed the dehydration and the mild –"the doctors said mild, Shane, it's not a big deal, stop worrying"— heatstroke and exhaustion at the hospital, but his nose's still broken, his ribs are still cracked, and his shoulder's still fucked. He has an appointment with an orthopedist in Ottawa he doesn't want to think about. His body's still covered in ugly, deep bruises and even breathing is painful.
"You have to take deep breaths, Ilya."
"It fucking hurts, Shane."
"Yeah, but if you don't you could get pneumonia and die!"
So he tries to take deep breaths.
By the time they land in Ottawa, Ilya thinks he should've listened to Shane. But whatever. At least he gets to see Anya.
He sleeps a lot. His pain management medication mixed with his antidepressants make him sleep for fourteen or fifteen hours a day.
Shane hovers.
A lot.
Ilya lets him.
He doesn't have the heart to ask him to stop.
The Centaurs win the second game.
He releases a press statement and Shane has to stop him from posting a selfie with the caption 'immortal' because he thinks it is not funny.
Then, on the sixth day, while they're snuggled up as much as they can in bed, Shane kisses his forehead and says that they need to talk.
"Talk about what?"
"About what happened, Ilya."
He swallows. "We've talked about what happened. A thousand times."
Shane shakes his head. "I need you to know some things."
The conversation's making him nervous. He shifts a little, and Shane seems to sense his fear, because he kisses his forehead again. "It's nothing bad, baby, it's just that- you came back to me."
"Of course I did. I promised, remember?"
Shane shakes his head again. He closes his eyes for a second, blinking back tears.
"Hey, Shane, what's wrong?"
"I don't want you to feel like you owe it to me to live."
Ilya feels his heart dropping to his stomach. He doesn't know what to say to that.
Shane licks his lips. "I just— I meant what I said that night, Ilya. I love you so much I couldn't- I couldn't live without you. The day you went missing was the worst day of my life."
"You don't have to live without me, lyubimyy. Not for a long while, at least."
"I've told you you're not allowed to die before me. And that's not what I meant. I think—fuck, I'm so proud of you, baby, for what you did out there. You saved yourself. You managed to take a gun away from them and then you- threatened them and fucking jumped from that car and I'm so sorry you had to go through that but I'm also so proud of you."
"I wanted to get back to you."
"That's my point, Ilya! I'm so thankful. Thank you. I don't think I said that. But thank you for coming back to me. Thank you for practically crawling through hell to get back to me."
"Then what's your point?" Shane flinches a little at that, so Ilya puts his good hand on his waist, bringing his husband a little closer. "I just want to understand, Shane. You're upset."
"I'm upset," Shane confirms. "I just- you did all this and even if you saved yourself, you also put yourself in danger. You weren't thinking about your safety or your wellbeing, you just wanted me to know that you hadn't— given up. That you hadn't died."
"That's what I promised," he repeats.
"I know, baby, I know. And, you know, when we first talked to the police they kept insinuating that maybe— with your depression you had—"
"I wouldn't do that, Shane. At least—"
"I know. But- Ilya, what I mean is— fuck, I don't know how to say this. I meant what I said. But you can't just— live for me. You have to live for yourself."
"It's not that easy."
Shane huffs. "What, living?"
"Yes!" And he doesn't mean to get angry, he really doesn't, but he's frustrated. "You— you're my everything, Shane. You're the love of my life. And if living is the thing I have to do to keep you from hurting, then I'm happy to do it."
"But you can't just— live to keep me happy. I don't want you to. I want you to live because you enjoy it. I want you to fight for your life because you feel like your life deserves to be lived."
Ilya sighs. "That's deep."
Shane smiles a little. He kisses his forehead again. "I know that, maybe, you don't get the difference. I know that maybe your depression forces you to hang on to certain things to keep fighting and maybe they're not the healthiest ones but at least they're reasons, right? I don't expect you to change your mentality completely right now. I just want you to think about it. And, please, remember, you don't owe it to me to live. You owe it to yourself. That is what I want you to understand, and I know it's going to be hard, but when I said that I wouldn't forgive you if you— if you killed yourself, I didn't mean it because you'd be doing it to me. I meant it because you'd be doing that to you, and that is what would kill me."
Ilya closes his eyes.
There are tears running down his cheeks, and he realizes it's the first time he's cried since that night.
"Okay."
"Promise me? That you'll try to live for you. Because your life deserves to be lived."
It feels dangerous, making that promise. It feels like a different kind of weapon, a sharp one, and he doesn't know where to grab it from.
He fought and jumped and walked because of Shane. Because he wanted to get back to him, because he swore, because he didn't want his husband to hurt.
Maybe his life deserves to be lived because Shane is in it.
He still doesn't understand the difference— what is he but a person in love? What is love if not fighting to get back to your person?
But he can try to understand. He can turn his hope into a reflection and he can try to stare at himself and find a person who fights because he wants to live because he owes it to himself.
It sounds nice.
So Ilya nods, and kisses Shane, and takes a deep breath and, for the first time in he doesn't even know how long, exhaling doesn't feel like a chore.
Maybe it's his meds working, or maybe it's everything that has happened that has awoken a survival instinct in him that had been hibernating for decades and decades. Maybe it's because he's there, in their bed, in Shane's arms, and that's the only place where the world doesn't feel like a dark void he doesn't belong in.
So he grabs the weapon, and he stares at the reflection of hope, and he forces himself to picture his face and his body and his soul on it.
He nods again.
"I promise."