Work Text:
By the time it’s clear that Ilya’s not getting a flight out of Boston, the cell towers are already down.
Shane texts him, even though he knows it won’t go through.
Where are we meeting?
(9:03 p.m.) Message not delivered. Try again?
There are a thousand texts just like it, going back over a decade.
Shane reads every text that Ilya sent. There are so many that he never replied to.
If he’d known the world was going to experience an actual zombie apocalypse, he would have replied to them all. He would have sent a text every minute of every day. He would have asked Ilya to marry him, right there on the rink, in the middle of their first game. He would have told him every day, every hour, how much he was loved.
And now Ilya will never know.
He’s mapped his route to Boston, when it happens. His suitcase is almost totally packed, he’s said goodbye to his parents, he’s learned how to shoot a gun- he can probably make it across the border before winter, if he hurries. If he doesn’t die.
Then, in the middle of chopping firewood, he throws up.
Then again, the next morning. And that night, when he smells the rabbit his mother is cooking.
He finds a pregnancy test, in town- on the back of a shelf, empty of all the more important things it once held.
When he sees those two little lines, he vomits again- and he doesn’t think it’s morning sickness this time.
_____________________________________________
There’s a story Shane read, when he was still going to public school- before his education became a thing to be squeezed in around hockey.
In it, a little girl tries to make a thousand paper cranes. Anyone who does it is supposed to be granted a wish. She only makes 644 before dying of leukemia.
Shane doesn’t know how to fold a paper crane- doesn’t have any way to learn. But he clears the stores and empty houses in town of all their paper. White, blue, black, even paper that’s already full of writing- he paints over it. Stays up at night, writing by moonlight, unwilling to waste a candle. The same phrase, over and over.
“Lily-
Come to the cottage.
- Love, Jane.”
He gives the notes to everyone that passes through town. He leaves stacks of them around the highway, underneath signs begging strangers to pass the message on.
He makes a thousand of them; makes his wish. Tries not to be disappointed when Ilya doesn’t appear.
He waits a whole day, before making number one thousand and one.
_____________________________________________
Their daughter is born, and Ilya isn’t there.
Shane thanks god for a lot of things that day- that his parents are still alive, still with him, holding his hand as he screams. He thanks god that one of the vets in town never left, and that apparently veterinarians have to study human anatomy. He thanks god that the woman delivers his baby safely, that his daughter doesn’t suffocate, that he doesn’t bleed out and leave her all alone.
He thanks god that their baby looks like Ilya.
It’s easy to wash the blood off her- the cottage was built with solar panels and a generator, so they’re the only people they know that still have warm running water. And once she’s clean and rosy, they can see wisps of blond curls, and a strong Cupid’s bow.
He tells her stories every night, though she can’t understand yet- trying to formulate sentences from his English/Russian dictionary.
“When your papa comes back,” he croons, rocking her back and forth. “He’ll hold you just like this.”
Sometimes, the traitorous thought slips through.
He’s dead.
He’s dead, or he’s one of those things.
He’s not coming back.
Every time, Shane holds their baby close. He breathes. And he writes Ilya another note.
_____________________________________________
“Stop,” Shane orders. He points his gun at the man, covered in filth and a thick beard, that stands outside his house. The safety is on. He prays he doesn’t have to use it- killing animals is hard enough. “State your business.”
In response, the man holds up a piece of paper.
Shane could recognize it in his sleep, at this point- his own rough, desperate marks, spelling out his only wish.
“Somebody missed me,” comes the deep voice of Ilya Rozanov, and Shane’s gun hits the ground.
“Ilya,” he breathes, and then he has no breath left- only the feeling of Ilya’s strong arms around him, holding him tight.
Their hands are everywhere- finally, finally he can feel the heat on Ilya’s skin, the tangle of his curls, the perfect pressure of his lips. They’re chapped, torn from months of anxiety and inconsistent hydration. They’re the best thing Shane has ever felt.
When they break apart, Shane laughs. He can’t remember the last time he did it- the muscles involved are weak.
“It’s the end of the world, Ilya,” Shane accuses, grinning wide. The taste in his mouth is familiar, unmistakable, and so lovely he might die. “Where have you even been getting cigarettes?”
Ilya laughs, and Shane can’t believe how the sound makes him feel- warm, and safe. “It’s been a very stressful time, lyubov.”
“Tell me about it,” Shane huffs.
It’s silent for a minute, as they stare at each other. Past the dirt and bruises and torn clothes, he can see everything he’s been missing- those pond-green eyes, that unflinching nose. Everything he’s ever wanted. He runs his thumb across the mole on Ilya’s cheek, the way he thought he’d never do again.
Then, Shane sets his shoulders. “I was going to look for you.”
“No.” Ilya interrupts him, shaking his head, firm. He kisses Shane’s forehead. “You did exactly right, staying here. Where I could find you.”
Shane shakes his head, again and again, looking anywhere but at Ilya. “No, I’m saying- I was packed. To go out to look for you. But then-“ he breathes, twice, trying not to panic. “I couldn’t.”
“What happened?” Ilya looks him over, face tight with concern. “You’re not hurt?”
“Um,” Shane takes a stuttering breath. “I was pregnant.”
Ilya is a statue.
Eventually, Shane has to say something. “I found out a few weeks after- everything happened.”
Silence.
“She’s fine,” Shane says, hurriedly, realizing all the things Ilya doesn’t know, all the questions he can’t find the strength to ask. “Your daughter. Our daughter,” he amends, with a humorless laugh. “Obviously.”
Tears, in Ilya’s eyes. Shane wipes them away.
“You want to see her?”
Ilya’s voice is a rasp. “Yes.”
It only takes a few minutes, to lead Ilya into the cottage by the wrist. To get his shoes off, though his socks are so dirty it barely makes a difference. To wash his hands, put him in a clean shirt. To take him into the nursery, which used to be a guest bedroom before the concept of guests became a thing of the past.
Then Shane is picking their perfect, sleeping baby up, and Ilya is cradling her, glowing like someone put the moon into his hands.
“That’s your papa,” Shane says, in stilted Russian- he’s sure he’s mispronouncing it, but all Ilya does is smile.
He’s never seen Ilya silent for so long, and his need to fill the space kicks in.
“Um, she turns one on June twenty-third,” he offers, hands twisting desperately with nothing to hold. “My dad calls her Junebug. And she hasn’t- walked, or said anything yet.” He looks at Ilya, wonders if he’s being heard. “So, you’ll be here for all of it.”
Silence, again. Then-
“What’s her name?”
Shane smiles, and his cheeks hurt.
“Irina Ilyevna Rozanov.”
The tears finally fall, and Ilya lets out a sob that sends Shane’s hands out, reaching around to hold him close.
“Hollander.”
Shane looks at Ilya, waits- but he doesn’t say anything else. “What?”
“No, I-“ Ilya shakes his head, and a tear makes a path through the dirt on his face. “You gave us this perfect-“ he breathes, and it stutters out of him. “She is a Hollander,” he says, firm. “Like us.”
Shane stills.
“Like us?”
“I can’t take my husband’s last name?” Ilya grins, presses their cheeks together.
Complicated formulas run through Shane’s brain. “I- we’re not-“ They’re not married, or even engaged- unless he’s missed something crucial over the last ten years.
“I know.” Ilya pleads. “Let me fix that.”
“I-“ Shane doesn’t understand. Or, he does- but he can’t believe it, can’t get his hopes up. He just got Ilya back; he can’t wish for anything more.
Ilya gives it to him anyway.
“Please let me be your husband, Shane Hollander.”
He can’t help it. Shane kisses him, hard, and the taste of cigarettes doesn’t bother him.
Much.