Chapter Text
Shane doesn’t mind sharing the room with Hayden, even if that means being extra careful with his phone. Especially since things have changed between him and Ilya, Shane has been almost… paranoid about Hayden accidentally catching a glimpse of his texts with his boyfriend.
Sometimes he does wish he had the room to himself, but he also likes the company, so it’s not much effort to keep the relationship a secret and his best friend and team as oblivious as possible.
However, all of his efforts are turned to dust in half a second flat on a random Saturday afternoon, while he’s mindlessly scrolling through his phone on his single bed, in the room he shares with Hayden, in New York of all the cities.
Montreal is supposed to play against the New York Admirals tomorrow in the afternoon, and Shane knows that Ilya is currently on a flight from Boston to Ottawa for a Raiders versus Centaurs game that will take place tomorrow so he just wants to text him that he’s arrived at the hotel and that he loves him and can’t wait to hear from him, when his world is turned upside down.
He just wants to text his boyfriend but the team group chat notifications won’t stop popping up on his screen so he can’t help but click on the offending banner. And then… then, it’s exactly when Shane learns that life as he knows it will never be the same again. No matter what.
It’s fucking Comeau, of all the Metros, that shares the news. It’s always Comeau, Shane swears.
Boston Raiders’ plane attempts emergency landing after engine failure: injured players and staff members taken to Ottawa Hospital
Shane really reads the headline twice, maybe even more. His eyes slowly adjust to this new reality, one where his boyfriend apparently is the victim of a plane accident.
What are the odds? How fucking unusual is that? How fucking slim are the chances that the plane you are on falls out of the sky? Flying should be the safest option. Safer than Ilya’s obnoxiously fast cars, for sure.
And yet. And yet.
God.
Shane is so angry and so scared; Shane is so, so terrified.
He doesn’t even click on the link to the article. He just starts spiraling. For a second, he’s sure the edges of his vision are turning black. Maybe this is all a nightmare. He’ll soon wake up. He blinks twice, and then more, and again and again until his eyes start tearing and… the world must be closing in on him. It certainly feels like it is.
His lungs are definitely stopping and his heart— fuck, he’s going to die. He is sure, so damn sure that he’s about to die. Broken heart syndrome is a thing, right? And judging by the sharp pain he’s feeling at the very center of his chest, his heart must be splitting into tiny, sharp pieces that will slowly puncture all of his other organs, so, yes, he’s about to die.
And people can’t even act annoyed at his funeral.
Fuck. He’s screwed. He is not thinking straight. He’s just shaking like a leaf in the middle of a hurricane. Zero chance of survival.
That’s actually, ironically pretty spot on.
There’s no way, absolutely no chance that he will survive if Ilya is dead.
Well, at least if they are both dead, they can be dead together, forever, without having to hide. They’ll be together and no one in the goddamn afterlife will judge them for being in love. And, and— fuck. He has to think. And not this panic-induced nonsense. Ilya is not dead, even if there’s an annoying little voice at the back of his mind that is intent on adding a terrifying yet to that sentence, every single time.
He needs to think and breathe and… get to Ilya. Yeah. Get to Ilya. Right fucking now.
He will. He just— God, how do you show up and act like a totally functional person when your world tilted on its axis? When it has probably ended? No. It has not.
No. No.
No.
And Hayden— Hayden is taking a shower when Shane’s world collapses in on itself and it would be ironic if only Shane weren’t feeling like he’s actively dying, like he’s bleeding out ever so slowly, life draining out of him. Because Hayden never takes a shower as soon as they arrive at the hotel. He usually calls Jackie and then mindlessly scrolls through his phone until Shane decides time is up and they’d better get ready for bed, for a night out with the team or to head to the rink for the game (that’s usually when Hayden teases Shane for being the real dad between the two of them).
And in any other circumstance, Shane would wait until his teammate, who also happens to be his best friend, got out of the bathroom before leaving the room and changing his whole life in one single breath.
But these are not usual circumstances, these times are pretty unprecedented and Shane’s life might as well be ending while everyone else is peacefully enjoying their night.
So Shane doesn’t wait for Hayden. Shane doesn’t think about his career — god, he might have forgotten he’s a hockey player if these godforsaken circumstances weren’t so intent on reminding him. He simply opens the door and leaves.
He feels drunk. This is his first thought. Which is almost… hilarious.
For some twisted, bizarre, and nearly funny—indeed— reason, the scarier the times are, the weirder the thoughts become, sometimes. And this time is probably Shane’s first.
He is walking around in New York without a coat, ass freezing, mouth producing a white, almost comforting cloud of condensation every time he breathes, while one hand is gripping the phone and he is slowly giving up on not shaking.
And what is he thinking? He is thinking that he doesn’t usually drink much alcohol but this for sure must be one hell of a hangover.
However, all that matters is getting to the closest car rental service that he can find. All he needs now is getting there and then getting in a car and driving to Ottawa as fast as humanly possible without getting himself killed in the process.
Luckily for him, finding a fast car in New York is pretty easy, even if it’s Saturday and it’s night. And it only takes him a twenty-minute walk to get to the car rental company.
Which happens to be a luxury car service, but Shane kind of knew that. He was pretty sure that he would end up in such a place when he frantically typed “fast car rent place nyc” with trembling fingers.
“He–hey, hi, uh… hello.”
Way to go. Shane internally grimaces. The man behind the huge, almost-unsettling sparkling white desk—Steven, his name tag says— is looking at him like he has three eyes or more than one head or something else going on. There’s no other explanation for his comically bulging eyes.
Honestly, maybe there is. Maybe Shane looks so pale and terrified that anyone would be concerned, just by looking at his face.
He clears his throat twice and begs his own hands to stop shaking, for God’s sake. On this note, he also hopes (in vain) that he won’t have to sign any paperwork because he’s not sure his hands would cooperate.
“Sir? Hey.”
Great, he must have zoned out. “Are you okay? You look a bit pale. You need help?”
Steven, bless him, looks, indeed, genuinely concerned, and if Shane’s last operating brain cell still worked, he could be amused, or touched. Or anything, really. He just… can’t process anything that is not the pieces of the Boston Raiders airplane that he saw somewhere in the thumbnail of the article that fucking Comeau sent.
“No. I need a car,” Shane clears his throat, grasping desperately at every bit of media training he went through in his life in the hope of getting this damn car without coming across as a psychopath or just a weird, creepy individual.
“I’m okay, yeah. Alright. Totally,” he adds, lying through gritted teeth. Totally unbelievable, if anything.
At least his jaw is still working, not shaking desperately like the rest of him is, he notices with pleasure. He can still talk.
“I need a car, the fastest car you’ve got,” he repeats. For reasons unknown. He obviously needs a fast car. That’s what he is here for, but maybe he could have phrased this need of his a little bit better, maybe not sounding (and looking) like someone who most likely would send said car crashing into a light pole.
He has never driven a sports car and he has never had any desire to. He never really got the appeal of speed, the adrenaline rush of going well over the speed limit, pushing some crazy engineered machine to the limit while putting his own life on the line. But now… well, after all, what they say about love making people crazy must be true.
“Are you sure you’re okay to drive? Are you… drunk? This is a luxury car rental service, kid,” the man tells him. And that kid sounds so patronizing that Shane is one second away from combusting on the spot, blowing this whole place up with him if only that didn’t keep him further away from his possibly dead boyfriend.
“Look, I can pay whatever, money is not a problem. I’m most definitely not drunk and I—” I am fucking Shane Hollander, do you know that? There are people who worship the ground I walk on. He would love to scream. He doesn’t, mostly because he doesn’t need attention drawn to him. But most importantly, because he needs a car. Right fucking now. He doesn’t want to argue and arguing certainly won’t help him get a car. He’s always somehow hated being a celebrity (he’s always just wanted to play hockey) but right now he would use anything to get to Ilya. Even if he has to look and sound like an entitled prick. But he suspects that playing the famous hockey player card wouldn’t help him now.
“Look,” he tries to take a breath, failing miserably. And probably because he needs to tell someone or he’ll be the first human being to physically (not metaphorically) explode, probably because he needs this man to take pity on him, he says: “my pa–partner is—” most certainly dead “in the hospital, I– I have to get to—”
Steven lifts his hands, surrendering. Maybe Shane looks so bad that Steven didn’t even need convincing, eventually. Maybe he has a son who’s Shane’s age. He certainly looks like he could be Shane’s dad. “Alright, kid, alright,” he cuts Shane off kindly but firmly, “I just need you to sign some papers and then you can choose the car, alright?”
And Shane just nods, following him to a back office, to sign anything that is put in front of him, effectively blocking out whatever the man on the other side of the desk is telling him about fines and insurance and accidents and refuel.
Steven probably perceives as much, but, after all, if Shane seems to be willing to pay whatever amount of money, he doesn’t seem to care that much. He’ll leave any other concerns to his boss, tomorrow morning.
They don’t pay me enough for this shit is Steven’s first thought barely five minutes later when he gets Shane to the garage. Because, honestly, the audacity of this young man…
“Okay, here, you can choose between the—” he begins. But Shane looks around for ten seconds flat, then points to his left. And, “That one,” he says, cutting Steven off abruptly.
“That one?” The man shrieks. “Look, there’s the Porsche here, or maybe the Mustang over there that is fast but more sens—”
It’s a fucking neon orange McLaren. That’s what that one is. And Steven has seen his fair share of weird things, but this young man coming into his shop looking like a brand new shade of death, desperate for the fastest car available might top them all. For real. And now he’s asking for a McLaren? Lord help the streets of this country tonight.
“Yes, is it alright? Do you need more money? I can also leave it at the Ottawa branch, alright? I’m gonna leave it there.”
Steven has a feeling that if he tried to stop him, no matter what his reasons may be, this scared young man would ignore him completely and take off with this massive car.
He nods and his inner dad forces him to beg Shane to be careful and not speed.
“Are you sure you are okay to drive this?” He can’t help but ask again, once Shane is sitting in the car. Are you sure you are okay to drive right now, let alone such a car?
Shane doesn’t even hear him. Blood is rushing through his ears, he’s gripping the steering wheel so tight to get his hands to stop trembling. Luckily, his legs can’t shake if he’s using them to drive. Also, this car is a fucking beast and he has to concentrate really, really hard not to crash into the first wall he drives past.
The engine roars to life behind him, sending a shiver down his spine. He is feeling quite apprehensive, if he’s honest, because he’s never been behind the wheel of such a powerful car, but the night is approaching and the highway will mostly be empty and he will do whatever is in his power to make the eight-hour drive from New York to Ottawa the shortest possible.
He has to get to Ilya. That’s his priority. He needs to get to Ilya because Ilya is alive.
Ilya is alive.
Ilya is breathing.
Ilya will be okay.
Ilya must be okay.
That’s all Shane needs to keep telling himself, that’s the only thing he needs to believe in, to not crash this car and simply call it a day, without anyone knowing what’s going on.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” He screams, into the void, into the cockpit of this fucking death trap, keeping his bloodshot eyes fixed on the road while his racing heart is attempting to break him in half.
No one knows about him and Ilya. No one knows that he is driving like a maniac across countries because all of his heart is lying in a hospital bed somewhere. Or worse, in an obituary. How is it even possible? How can people look at them and not know? How much of a coward Shane is for coming up with that stupid post-retirement plan? For thinking that they should and could wait until the end of their careers to properly live a life together, as they deserve?
God, he will change that. He will tell the whole fucking world as soon as Ilya is okay to consent. He will run to the hospital rooftop and scream that he is in love with Ilya Rozanov and nothing will ever change that. No one will be able to change his mind.
He goes on thinking about this for some seconds— or some hours, he doesn’t know. What he does know is that at some point, a flashing neon motel sign makes his eyes sting and he realizes that he’s been sobbing the whole time. From New York to this nameless city in the middle of nowhere, somewhere between the US and Canada, separating him and Ilya.
He’s actually a mess. Crying and having a breakdown while casually cruising around 105 miles per hour. The harsh truth (one that Shane is trying to ignore) is that he’s seen the speed number on the display going over 200, and if his mother knew that, he’d be dead. That is, if he doesn’t crash this car and die before assessing his boyfriend’s condition.
Also, he deliriously thinks that under no circumstances Ilya needs to know about this. Or Shane won’t ever be able to complain about his cars ever again.
Shane would probably say something along the lines of “Ilya stop speeding!” and that would get him an “oh, like that time that you drove to Ottawa…” in return, and Shane would have to drop it. He can actually hear him.
But… extenuating circumstances. In fact, the circumstances are honestly exhausting. Shane is exhausted.
At some point, his phone starts ringing, but Shane can’t deal with it. He knows it’s Hayden, he doesn’t even have to look at the screen for that. He already spoke to his mom, before this disaster happened, so there’s only one person who could be looking for him (besides the one he’s running to).
He can’t answer because he is trying to make it to Ottawa in one piece. He can’t answer because he is not sure he won’t spill more tears and then a decade's worth of secrets in one single breath.
Letting it ring, he just keeps driving. Then, by approximately hour three, he does something stupid: he calls Ilya. Obviously, it goes straight to voicemail. And perhaps, part of him knows exactly what he is doing, because even if Ilya can’t pick it up, he can listen to his voicemail.
How is he supposed to keep living if all Ilya will ever tell him again is Hi, this is Ilya, I will never listen to your voicemail?
No. He can’t and he won’t… he won’t go there. He will have to assume that Ilya is alive until proven otherwise.
By hour three point five, he starts leaving messages. Somehow, they all end up with some variation of I love you, please be alive. By hour four, he stops at a gas station because he desperately needs to pee and it’s almost eleven thirty and he needs one or two energy drinks. At this point, he’ll eat and drink anything if that means getting to Ottawa safe and sound.
Fuck. If he closes his eyes for a moment, he can hear Ilya’s thick accent that mocks him lovingly.
He hears a huffed God Hollander your bird food is so booooring! while he’s clicking the car door shut, and then just one Snickers bar, come ooon, for me? when he scans the candy aisle of the gas station shop.
And then he starts sobbing again when he looks at his reflection in the toilet mirror. Because he is a whole new person. That reflection thinks he has lost Ilya and Shane never wants to be that reflection. He’s spent so long trying to get over Ilya, trying to do without the warmth of his embrace, trying to ignore his softness, and now that he has finally found the courage to claim it all, he doesn’t want to lose it. He cannot be that reflection. He doesn’t want to be.
He wants to throw a tantrum right in this secluded corner of the universe, in this forgotten service station, and act like a sleepy toddler that simply has to get his own way. Until the universe listens to him and Ilya is perfectly fine. Until Ilya picks up the damn phone; Shane would be even more pleased in that case, but it will be enough if Ilya is just okay.
He splashes freezing cold water on his face and counts backwards from ninety nine, then exits the toilet and buys two energy drinks, one protein bar, two Snickers bars and a black coffee and — he almost drops dead in front of the candy aisle when he spots them— a pack of Sour Patch Kids, because for some reason Ilya loves them and, as Ilya will kindly be very alive, Shane is sure he’ll be happy to eat some, after surviving a plane accident.
Then he gets back behind the wheel.
Shane makes the eight-hour drive from New York to The Ottawa Hospital in less than six hours. And he can’t find it in himself to care about how dangerous that has been or about how loud the engine of this hellish machine he’s been driving is echoing in the hospital parking lot in the middle of the night. Or about how many traffic tickets for speeding he will be getting and paying.
He’s stopped shaking completely somewhere along the way, even managed to look normal enough to not get too many questions thrown his way at the border, but now, when only the ER glass doors are separating him from the most important question of his life, he starts shaking all over again. He grabs his phone, his wallet, puts his passport in the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie, and walks into the ER with a pack of Sour Patch Kids in his left hand. Like a completely normal person, obviously. Who hasn’t done that at least once in their life?
Taking a big, big breath, he approaches the front desk and braces for rejection, for questioning, for anything, honestly. For his life to end.
Clearing his throat to get the nurse's attention, he mentally scolds himself because he hasn’t thought for a second about what to say.
“Hello sir, how can I help you? Are you injured?” The nurse slowly and carefully asks him, squinting at him as if he’s some scared wild animal.
Shane can’t fault him for that.
“Yes, I mean– no, I’m– I have to see the Boston Raiders captain, it’s– uh, urgent,” he says, mustering all his courage and determination. Urgent? God. He has never been more terrified, his eyes slowly fill with tears and he has to concentrate really hard not to drop the candy pack he’s gripping like his life depends on it.
“Uhm, sir, you know he’s–”
Shane is not above begging. He will beg and bargain. And more. “The plane accident? They are here, right? Please, I have to see him,” he whispers brokenly at the end, mostly because he has to swallow a puck-sized lump in his throat.
Maybe drinking one Red Bull and a half and eating the Snickers and then the protein bar from the gas station hasn’t been his finest idea. He feels like throwing up.
Or maybe it has nothing to do with what he’s gulped down, and more with his boyfriend being in this very particular building.
“I understand, but we can’t allow fans to– you know, you shouldn’t even know–”
Shane sees red, maybe that’s what he’ll blame his outburst on.
“What?” He screeches unceremoniously and then leans over the desk for good measure. “I’m his fucking boyfriend! I’m Shane Hollander, who do you think I am?”
In retrospect, he probably should have felt a little ashamed, but right now he feels like he’s one wrong word away from blowing the whole building up with his mind.
Also, he should consider that he’s just outed himself and Ilya to at least one person, but considering how loud he was, probably the whole ER now knows about them. The problem is that he physically cannot bring himself to care. Ilya might be dead, for God’s sake.
“Wow, there’s a McLaren in the parking lot, dude,” all of a sudden he hears. It’s coming from the waiting room. Shane is pretty sure that it’s a young boy who’s never seen such a car before, but he also knows that such a car will inevitably draw attention. And in any other circumstance, that thought would probably have sent him straight into a whole panic attack but… unprecedented times and all that. So, yeah, Shane doesn’t care. Bright orange was the only color available, he does not care. Not right now anyway. He’ll panic later, when he sees that Ilya is alright with his own eyes.
“Well?” He pushes on, because he needs answers, not a dissertation about that damn sports car parked outside the hospital.
“Well, I’m sorry Mister Hollander, but– you should–”
Shane is going to lose his mind. If they insist that they can’t let him see Ilya, it means that Ilya is not conscious.
A shiver runs through his spine. “At least tell me how he is– ask him if he wants to see me, he will tell you the truth, fuck,” he spits out, blind with panic and rage.
“We can’t do that, I’m afraid.”
“Why? What– is he…” No. Shane can’t utter those words. He can’t put that thought out in the open, the universe can’t possibly entertain the idea.
“Please.”
“We put him in an induced–”
Shane is about to collapse when someone else from the waiting room loudly exclaims: “There’s an orange McLaren out there, it’s orange!” And Shane almost loses it, but he’s too preoccupied with staying upright to lose his temper completely.
“What? You what?” He pleads.
“Coma,” the nurse finishes his explanation.
That’s why he can’t tell them to let Shane visit him. Because Ilya is not conscious.
Shane looks around, finds a trash bin, and throws all of his stomach contents up. Then, hands resting on his thighs and chest heaving, he tries to breathe.
Someone is at his side in a moment, it is the nurse he was speaking to until thirty seconds ago. “Mister Hollander? Why don’t you sit for a minute?”
He slowly helps Shane to a more private room. Shane is pretty sure it is not a waiting room but he must look really bad if this man is willing to help him stay away from prying eyes.
However, after checking that he will not collapse, the nurse leaves him. He has a job to do, Shane supposes. But that leaves Shane alone. And Shane simply can’t stand the mere thought of being alone right now. So he does the only thing that makes sense: he calls his mom. Forgetting that it’s nearly three in the morning.
“Mom?”
“Shane? What– are you okay? What’s wrong?”
Wrong thing to say, apparently, because Shane starts sobbing. He’s honestly surprised to still have tears to shed at this point. He has twenty-three missed calls from Hayden and more than one hundred messages in the team group chat, his boyfriend is unconscious in a hospital bed and he just wants his mom. He is just so, so scared that she will hate him. But even his fear has priorities, it seems. Losing Ilya the most terrifying thing right now. Perhaps because deep down Shane knows that his mom’s love is unconditional, while Ilya’s life is currently up for negotiations.
He just wants his mom’s warmth, to be wrapped up in her embrace and be told that everything is going to be alright. He wants the person who’s always made everything better with her presence alone.
“I– mom, I’m so sorry,” he wails, feeling so ridiculous and so small. “I’m… sorry.”
“Shane, you’re scaring me, baby,” his mom gently tells him, and he’s sure he can hear the rustle of sheets in the background. “Tell me what’s wrong and we’ll fix it.”
Shane cries even harder, at that. How is he supposed to be the son his mother deserves? She is so kind to him, she has always been kind and supportive and he has been lying for years.
“I’m a liar, Mom, I’m so sorry,” eventually he says, between tears that he’s honestly tired of.
“Shane, honey, I promise you it’s fine. Where are you? You are in New York, right? Are you with Hayden?”
Fuck. That’s one more lie.
“No, I– I’m in Ottawa, Mom, I– can you come?”
Shane takes a deep breath, sniffing a little, and waits.
“Ho– how– yeah, of course, where exactly are you? We’ll come to get you,” his mother reassures him. They will always come. That is never a question, and it makes Shane cry harder.
“Yeah?” He asks, in the smallest voice his mom has ever heard from him. A young man like Shane should never sound so small and defeated, she thinks.
“Of course, honey. Where are you exactly? We are getting dressed as we speak, baby.”
Shane shakes his head, “But– but, Mom, there are so many things you don’t know and– and–” He is not breathing again and he absolutely hates this feeling but he has lost his grip on tears a long time ago.
“Shane.” It’s his dad who’s speaking now, and for some reason that makes Shane panic a little bit more, despite the man never having done anything to make him doubt his love. “There’s nothing you say that will make us not come to you, alright buddy? It’s okay.”
“But, Dad…”
“Yeah? Where are you?”
“I’m gay… I– I have a boyfriend,” Shane whispers and then breaks down, and for some seconds all his parents hear through the phone is broken cries that they never want to hear again. They would honestly like to forget that their son has ever sounded so distraught.
“Oh, okay. Okay, Shane, it’s okay,” his dad says immediately. He doesn’t even sound surprised, and Shane could notice as much if only he didn’t feel like he’s about to die. Then, his mom speaks.
“I love you so much, Shane. You are my baby and nothing can ever change that, okay? Nothing. Now, can you please tell us where you are? You are really scaring me. I just want to find you.”
“Really? You are sure?”
Yuna and David’s hearts break in so many pieces that they will never be able to pick them up, but this is not about them. It’s about Shane.
“We promise, Shane. Let us come to you, alright buddy?”
David takes a deep breath and waits, with his wife, for his son to finally tell them where they can find him.
Shane tries to dry his cheeks with the back of his hand. It’s pretty useless. “I’m, uh… at The Ottawa Hospital.”
“I’m okay,” he adds immediately after, before his parents can further panic. “It’s…” closing his eyes he finds the strength. “It’s my boyfriend. He’s–”
It takes Yuna barely five seconds to wonder if her son’s boyfriend might be a Raider— she’s almost certainly sure of that at this point, but she doesn’t say anything. She just reassures Shane that they will be there as soon as they can and that he doesn’t have to worry about them.
Shane tries to compose himself after the phone call ends and decides to do that in the toilet at the end of the hallway that he spots from this room he was sent to.
He splashes more water into his face and stands with his forearms under the ice-cold spray for some seconds to ground himself. Then uses the toilet and gets out, touching the Sour Patch Kids in his kangaroo pocket to make sure that he hasn’t lost the candies, as if he were touching Ilya himself. He feels so silly, but he is scared, so he doesn’t care too much.
Then, some time passes, and he does his best to keep some semblance of calm and control. He seriously does not need to cry again, so by taking a series of deep breaths, he tries to stop his chest from spasming again. That deep ache that has taken residence between his ribs seems determined to stay, though. Shane distinctly thinks that it’s the price of love.
Pressing his back onto the uncomfortable chair he is precariously sitting on, he closes his eyes, but then something forces him to open them.
At first Shane squints, adjusting to the harsh hospital lights, then he is sure he’s hallucinating, because Ilya is in a coma — induced, but still— and Marlow— well, Marlow must be in a similar condition. The two of them cannot be discussing in a random room on the opposite side of this hallway that Shane sees from this weird room he has been deposited into.
And yet. And yet Shane would recognize that voice everywhere, anytime. No matter the external noise and the circumstances. That’s Ilya’s voice. Ilya is talking, and he sounds… delirious, or scared, Shane is not sure but he is sure he recognizes his boyfriend’s voice.
He immediately gets up and moves in the direction of the commotion, drawn to the other man’s presence. Maybe he fell asleep and is dreaming. That’s a possibility, he thinks, while walking down the hallway.
“No, Marly, you have to call him. Shane. Hollander. You know him!”
Yeah. That’s Ilya. Shane’s Ilya. Ilya is alive and talking, and asking for him. Shane’s knees threaten to give out. He probably won’t manage to reach his room. It’s at the end of the corridor and Shane is so tired and relieved but also so scared that this is a byproduct of his tired and stressed mind. He knows he won’t survive if he doesn’t find Ilya, now that he is sure he has heard him.
He walks and walks and walks and feels like Ilya’s room gets further and further away, the more he moves his feet. But Ilya keeps talking, so that must mean something. Shane is not hallucinating.
“I know him, Roz, but–” That’s Marlow. So, Marlow must be alright too. Good. That’s good.
If Shane were any more alert, and not operating on sheer terror and a mostly empty stomach, he would probably wonder who the hell the man in an induced coma was at this point, but all he is focused on is Ilya’s conversation with Marlow.
Anything else is even less than background noise, for Shane, right now.
“No, Marly, I need Shane, you do not understand, give me phone,” Ilya cuts his friend off abruptly, and Shane can hear him slurring the words, as though he is drugged up. And maybe he is. He’s probably on a shit ton of painkillers. That happens when you survive a plane accident, he supposes.
Fuck. Ilya’s alive. Oh, God. Shane is going to collapse. Ilya is fucking alive.
Shane’s eyes fill with so many tears that every door becomes blurred, but Ilya’s voice sounds closer and closer, so it’s okay.
Marlow, on his part, thinks that he deserves this. After all, his captain got hurt to save him. He brought this on himself, in a sense. Maybe he would be seriously injured if Ilya hadn’t pushed him out of the way. However, he didn’t ask for the plane engines to suddenly give out, so the universe could be kind enough to spare him the trouble of having to calm down his concussed and pretty huge (he has had to physically keep him from fleeing the bed and it wasn’t easy) teammate.
“I am big, strong Russian, Marly. I have… ways.”
That’s how the argument started, and Marlow would laugh in his friend’s face if he could, but right now is really not the time. It started because a nurse asked him if there was someone he wanted to call, and Ilya stared into the void for a bunch of seconds, looking like he was intensely thinking, like the concussion had made some serious damage and he was evaluating the question, before literally lighting up like a Christmas tree, and requesting Jane.
The poor nurse, though, didn’t know any Jane. There is no Jane on Ilya’s file so they couldn’t possibly know how to get in touch, and Ilya didn’t like that. He didn’t appreciate that one bit.
So Marlow tried to calm him down, but all he got in response was various versions of “gimme phone, Marly,” and some honestly ridiculous and empty threats.
“You lost the phone on the plane. You do remember the plane, Roz, right? It’s not so serious, right?” He asked, genuinely concerned about his friend, because they told Ilya repeatedly that they didn’t find any phone. It’s not that uncommon to lose pretty much everything during a plane accident, apparently.
But this goddamn phone has been on his captain’s mind ever since the nurse reminded him of Jane and Marlow honestly is tired, despite having been cleared by the doctors. He genuinely needs sleep.
“I need phone, I need Jane.”
Fucking Jane and fucking Roz who never introduced them, Marlow thinks.
If he personally knew this Jane, he could find a way to bring her here, he thinks. Then he wonders why Jane herself hasn’t been looking for her boyfriend, since the news of their pretty troubled evening has been pretty much broadcast worldwide in a matter of minutes. There’s no way she doesn’t know.
Then, he begins worrying about his own mental state. Maybe his brain was scrambled in the rough landing and this is a weird coma dream, maybe he should ask a nurse to check him again, to check for serious brain bleeds or something like that, because suddenly, quite abruptly, his captain starts weeping like a toddler who isn’t getting his way, and producing bizarre, broken sounds that Marlow didn’t think he had in him.
It genuinely tugs at his chest, so much that he approaches the bed, leaves the chair, and tries to placate Ilya by awkwardly patting his shoulder. “Ilya,” he goes as far as calling him by his first name. It’s always Cap, or Roz, or Rozy, or brother or some annoyed but fond asshole, never Ilya. Like he is never Cliff.
And maybe it would be cool, it would be fine, if only Ilya, Rozanov, Rozy— whatever, Marlow is exhausted— didn’t suddenly start asking for Shane fucking Hollander of all people.
“What?”
“Get Shane. Need Shane. Gimme phone–”
“You don’t have a phone anymore, Ilya!”
“Then find me Shane!”
Marlow blinks once, twice, then thinks that probably his only way out of this is pretending to indulge Ilya who looks like a kid who has just lost his favorite toy.
“Do you know Hollander?” He cautiously asks, almost whispering, scared of whatever reaction Ilya could have.
He nods, looks Marlow straight in the eyes, and adds: “Call him.”
“I don’t have Hollander’s number…” he guiltily murmurs, as if it were some unforgivable mistake.
“That is why I need phone.” Ilya goes as far as crossing his arms, petulantly pouting at his friend, completely unaware of the trouble he’s about to face.
That is how Marlow finds himself with his captain who insists that he needs Shane Hollander, he simply doesn’t understand.
Ilya’s eyes droop, and he winces every now and then, meaning that he’s fighting to stay awake and that his head hurts. Completely normal things, considering his state. He seems determined to stay awake though. Marlow just hopes that Jane will soon find a way to get to her boyfriend so this whole Shane Hollander nonsense can come to an end (how did it even start?) and his friend can find some peace.
Especially since Ilya’s eyes fill with tears again, some seconds later. Actually, come to think of it, he’s gone suspiciously quiet all of a sudden.
“Hey? Roz? You’re okay, man. Everyone’s doing fine, just–”
Ilya cuts him off shaking his head. “I should remember his number,” he whispers solemnly, “am stupid.”
Marlow feels the sudden need to get up and hug his friend, and that hasn’t happened in maybe ten years, but it’s okay, because barely ten seconds later, Ilya’s eyes light up with tears and joy. Marlow is one hundred percent sure that he has never seen all these emotions paint Ilya Rozanov’s features. He barely has the time to turn around and look in the direction of the door, where the other man is staring, when a choked-out Ilya leaves him breathless.
Marlow is left speechless because that voice is one he knows. It’s Shane Hollander’s voice, and it’s echoing in his teammate’s room, after they have almost collectively died. You know what? Maybe they did die and this is all a post-mortem dream.
Shane Hollander is very real, though. And he also looks like utter shit, like the most important person of his life has almost died. But the best part is that neither he nor Ilya seems to notice that he is in the room the moment they lock eyes.
Shane’s heart is racing. It’s beating so fast that there’s no way his blood is ending up in all the right places. His ears feel super hot, and he feels like lava is flowing behind his cheeks. Maybe it’s just the tears, maybe it’s a mixture of love and pure fucking unadulterated relief, but Shane wonders for a beat if he’s going to collapse.
“Ilya, Ilya, oh my fucking– oh, God. Ilya,” he pants while roughly throwing himself at his boyfriend, not even sparing a glance at the rest of his body. On second thought, he could be hurting the other man but he doesn’t have the mental capacity to even entertain any thought other than Ilya is okay Ilya is okay Ilya is okay.
“Ilya,” he keeps repeating, like a broken record, while Ilya grips his hoodie with all the strength he has left, barely registering that he is crying, breathing in the scent of his boyfriend. The same boyfriend who he thought he was never going to see again.
“Shane, Shane, ya tebya lyublyu Shane,” Ilya sobs, trying to pull Shane onto the bed, squish them together until they are one being, “ya tak sil'no lyublyu tebya, Shane.”
Shane is hyperventilating, borderline hysterical while he tries to touch Ilya everywhere. He wants to touch every single inch of Ilya’s skin that he manages to reach while his boyfriend is in this hospital bed. “Fuck– ya tozhe lyublyu tebya, Ilya, so much, so much,” he clumsily spits the words out, chest heaving, mouth open against Ilya’s skin, as though time were slipping away and he had to say them to save his life. His Russian is bordering on embarrassing but Shane could not bring himself to care.
“Fuck, Ilya, Ilya. I love you so much, Ilya,” he murmurs, all hysterical, panicking while he moves his face to kiss Ilya’s forehead.
In a second he is kissing every single inch of Ilya’s face, wherever he can reach, cupping his face with both hands because he needs to have both of them on his boyfriend, to feel that he’s alive, that he is warm, full of fucking life.
Ilya feels really, really confused but he remembers the fear, the terror that he felt while the plane was rapidly descending, free-falling from the sky, he remembers the way he thought that, while he was glad Shane was not going to die with him, being in his arms was all he wanted in that moment. In his last moment. Fuck. He was sure he would never see Shane again and now here Shane is, with him, squeezing him and touching him and looking at him like Ilya is a goddamn miracle, and Ilya is so in love that he doesn’t even need more painkillers. He is fine. He has got Shane.
“Gimme kiss,” he chuckles, face hot with tears and hands trembling when he tries to reach for Shane’s face. He tries to bring Shane’s face down to his but he gladly finds out that he doesn’t have to even try because Shane chuckles and immediately leans forward and kisses his lips.
It’s a soft, barely there kiss, and it’s everything. They kiss once, twice, maybe once more, but then they mostly just stay there, sharing the same breath, breathing each other in. Eyes closed and hands firmly holding each other’s cheeks, tenderly stroking the wet skin, trying uselessly to dry the unrelenting tears.
Shane finds himself opening his eyes then, because he has to see Ilya. He has to see that he hasn’t hallucinated the last ten minutes. “Ilya, Ilya, oh my God,” he keeps saying. Maybe his brain has been rewired and this is all he’ll ever be able to say. It’s okay. He’ll gladly accept this problem, if that’s the case.
“I thought you were dead, fuck–”
Ilya, in response, grins. Like an idiot, like a total maniac. He looks at Shane, all shaken and disheveled, and grins, then pats the side of his head, lovingly, as if Shane is a cute stray puppy, and ducks his head. “You are still very pretty, Hollander, even if you look like shit,” he tells Shane, so softly that Shane would ask for immediate medical attention if only that didn’t bring him away from his boyfriend. Ilya also tries desperately to drag him to his chest and punctuates his statement with an obnoxiously loud mwah that accompanies a kiss on Shane’s head.
“Fuck you, Rozanov,” Shane laughs, and wipes his nose on the sleeve of his hoodie. It’s so disgusting and Shane has never been happier to feel dirty and disgusting.
Then he buries his face in Ilya’s chest, and stays there for some time, hiding his hands between Ilya’s body and the mattress, while Ilya pushes him down on himself. It’s incredible. It’s everything. It will never be enough.