Chapter Text
In Ilya's defense, this could've happened to anyone.
He doesn't remember much, if he's being honest. He's aware he's moving- the bright blue sky above him blinds his eyes and dries his mouth. His limbs feel impossibly heavy, and everything else feels cloudy and mushy and blurry. He's lying on top of something uncomfortable, a bunch of long, thick bags of something. He's pretty sure he's in a truck bed.
There's a coppery taste coating his lips, and there's pain crawling through his ribs every time he tries to take a deep breath. And it's so goddamn hot.
So. He's probably not in Canada.
He has no idea where he is.
He can barely remember what happened, and he knows he should be worried about it, but he's too tired for that. So he closes his eyes and gives himself a moment to breathe- to rest. Just ten minutes.
Then he'll figure out what to do.
And how the fuck he's going to explain all this to his husband.
*
Shane wakes up next to an empty bed.
He's not used to it.
In the span of the two years since he married Ilya and started playing with the Centaurs, he could count the number of times he's woken up alone in one hand. Even if he had doubts at first about sharing hotel rooms whenever they had away games, Shane had quickly figured out he couldn't stand to be apart from Ilya, so- professionality had been forced to take a step back. He doesn't really mind.
His bed is empty, though, and it shouldn't be, and that kind of puts him in a bad mood.
It's early.
They had a game in Las Vegas last night, and they had won it. Shane had been expecting a celebration of his own with his husband that night- had even bought chocolate and strawberries and whipped cream because he and his therapist are working on enjoying food for reasons different than nutrition, and this seemed like a great idea, but Ilya had apparently promised Luca and Wyatt that he'd go with them to a weird event in the middle of the dessert that he can't remember the name of.
"Is it like- ComiCon?" Shane had asked.
"No, no, it's like- a party, right?" Luca had answered, a huge smile on his face. "But it's comic-themed and everyone has to cosplay a character and the drinks and the music are all comic themed and people from all over the country come to this thing! There's going to be movie stars and directors and it's like-"
"ComiCon."
"No, Holly, it's a party! A nerd party!" Wyatt had laughed. "Roz promised he'd go with us if I block all of the shots tonight. And if Haasy scores."
Shane had felt himself frowning. "And you want to take my husband with you so bad because..."
"Because I'm fun, Hollander!" Ilya had laughed. He'd been drinking coffee and his upper lip was stained with foam and Shane had had to keep himself from licking it clean. "Everyone wants me to go to parties with them, but I always say no because I'm a boring married Canadian now."
"You're not Canadian yet."
"Same thing."
And they had won 4-0 against Las Vegas, advancing to the next round of the playoffs, and Luca had scored twice, so Shane had helped Ilya put on a ridiculous jedi costume and kissed him goodbye.
"You can come with us if you want."
Shane had rolled his eyes. "To ComiCon party? Sounds like a nightmare. No thanks."
Ilya had laughed, throwing his head back, his teeth showing. Shane loved his laugh. "Alright. Don't wait up for me."
"Wasn't planning to," Shane had answered.
Now, he looks at the clock sitting on top of the hotel's bedside table. It's 7:59. Their plane leaves at noon.
And Ilya doesn't seem to be in the room.
He sits up slowly, rubbing his eyes.
"Ilya?" he calls.
No one answers.
Anxiety starts moving thickly through his veins and his lungs, closing up his throat. "Ilya?"
He grabs his phone. No missed calls. No texts. He stands up, checks the bathroom, even if he knows it's going to be empty.
His call goes straight to voicemail.
"Rozanov, I'm going to kill you," he mutters to himself while he puts on some sweatpants and a hoodie.
He leaves the room and walks to Wyatt's. He tries calling first -because he's polite, and he doesn't want to come in without announcing himself-. He hears Hayes' phone ringing through the door. No one answers.
Whatever. If Wyatt got Ilya so drunk he didn't come back to their hotel room last night, he deserves this.
"Hayes!" He calls while he knocks loudly on the door. "Ilya!" he adds, just in case.
Wyatt opens the door a minute later. Shane can't help but chuckle. He's still wearing a costume, one that Shane doesn't recognize, and his shirt is stained with something that stinks of really strong alcohol. His hair is sticking up in all directions and he's squinting. "Hollander, what the hell."
"I could ask you the same thing," Shane crosses his arm, taking a look inside Wyatt's hotel room. Ilya doesn't seem to be there, and the anxiety starts reaching his heart, turning its beating erratic. Shane's mostly annoyed, if he's being honest, but there's this feeling twirling in his gut. He doesn't like not knowing where Ilya is. "Where the hell is my husband?"
Hayes blinks.
"What?"
"Where's Ilya?"
That seems to wake Wyatt up a little. "He's not with you?"
Shane keeps himself from flailing his arms and yelling. "Obviously not. His phone's off."
Wyatt blinks again. "He's not here. I don't- think so. I just woke up."
"What the fuck happened last night?" He's aware that he sounds annoyed, but he doesn't really care.
"Um," another goddamn blink. "I don't- I don't remember."
Shane walks into the room without even realizing he's doing it. He checks beside the bed and in the bathroom and, yeah, Ilya's not there.
"Fuck it," he mutters, and he heads towards Luca's room. Wyatt trails behind him, still looking extremely hungover but at least a little more alert.
He knocks loudly on Luca's door. "Haas! Rozanov!"
"Shane, calm down, I'm sure everything's fine," Wyatt calls from behind him. Shane swallows.
"It's not fine," he answers, still knocking on the door. "You got so drunk you can't even remember what happened and apparently my husband can't remember what hotel room he's in."
Luca opens, looking even worse than Hayes. He's not wearing a shirt but still has the jedi costume pants on- he was matching with Ilya. He had seemed pretty excited about that.
"Did something happen?"
God, Shane's going to kill the kid.
"Ilya. Where is he."
Luca blinks. Shane is going to kill the next person that blinks.
"Um... not here?"
Alright. That's- not good. Not good at all. Shane forces his heartbeat to calm down enough to speak.
"Well, where is he?" He's yelling. He doesn't care. "You guys went to that goddamn party together. You were supposed to return together."
Wyatt places a hand on top of his shoulder. He's serious now. Luca seems spooked too. They go inside Luca's room and Wyatt closes the door behind them.
"Okay. Okay- let's- figure it out. Haasy, what do you remember?"
Luca shakes his head. He looks scared. It's not helpful to Shane's fear. "Nothing. I- Shane, I swear to you I never get black out drunk, never. Especially when we're travelling. But I- I don't know what happened last night."
Hayes frowns. "I've tried to remember too- I can't. It's all- gone."
Shane's breathing hitches a little. "You don't know how you got back here?"
"No— I mean- I- we were all at the event. It was cool," Luca's voice is shaking. "We were- dancing and the kids from Stranger Things were there and they recognized Ilya and- we were in a cab?"
"We were," Wyatt confirms. "Yeah, I remember that."
"Was Ilya with you?"
"I don't— I don't know, Shane, I'm sorry."
Shane forces himself to breathe. Luca's biting his lip with so much force he's pretty sure he's about to draw blood. He grabs his phone again and calls Ilya again- straight to voicemail. Of course.
"Shit," he hears himself saying. He covers his eyes with his hands, trying to think. "Fuck."
"It's okay, Shane, we're going to find him, alright? I need you to breathe."
"I'm fucking breathing, Hayes!"
"Alright. Sorry. Keep on breathing, then."
"Do you have his location?" Luca asks while reaching for his phone. "I'm texting the Centaur group chat- maybe someone's heard from him."
Shane nods. "Yeah, yeah, I have his location. Fuck, I didn't think of that."
His hands are shaking while he scrolls to his location app.
Ilya's name's buffers for a second, and then stops.
"Fuck. Shit. Fuck."
Wyatt's sitting beside him, glaring at Shane's screen. "He's-"
"In the middle of fucking nowhere."
The map on his phone shows Ilya in the middle of fucking nowhere. Shane wants to scream.
"Alright. Alright- maybe- I don't know."
"We should call the police," Luca mutters, and Shane's heart stops completely. He forces himself to blink away the tears that form themselves. He bites his tongue.
"That would be a media nightmare," to his credit, Wyatt seems sheepish as he says it.
But he's right.
If the word gets out that Ilya Rozanov is missing after a party in Las Vegas, the media will eat him alive. Will eat them all alive. And the media is nothing but ruthless to him- it's always been, but even more now that they're out and married- it's like every single thing he does is related to the fact that he's married to Shane, that he's bisexual, that he's russian. And the playoffs are in full swing, and they really don't need the scandal.
He hates it, he hates it so much his stomach feels sick, but Wyatt's right.
"We're going to- go get him. Maybe- I don't know. But we'll go get him and then—”
Wyatt squeezes his shoulder. "We'll cross that bridge when we get to it."
"Right."
"Where is he, exactly?"
"Um." Shane squints at his phone. "It says Amargosa Valley. 89 miles away. Jesus fuck. And this was— three hours away. It's not updating."
"We have to tell Wiebe."
"Yeah." Shane stands up, his legs shaky. There's not enough air in the room. Everything's spinning, and his husband is in the middle of fucking nowhere, and something could have happened to him, and a part of his brain is whispering angrily at him, reminding him of the conversation they had last month, and he's so scared he can't even begin to describe it. And the last thing he ever said to him was that he wasn't going to wait up for him.
He should have.
He should have gone with him; he should've gone to the stupid party and maybe this whole day wouldn't be a nightmare.
"Hollander?" Wyatt calls softly.
"I just—" Shane tumbles towards the bathroom. "I need a second."
He locks the door behind him, and muffles his sobs against his forearm.
*
Wiebe gets them a rental car.
"I'm driving," he states. No one fights him on it. It's 9.30 now, and Shane has called Ilya's phone again and again and again, but the phone's still off. Obviously. Wyatt gets in the passenger seat, nursing a cup of coffee.
Troy has joined them as well, Shane's not even sure when that happened. It all feels blurry in his mind, the crying in the bathroom and the rest of the team confirming no one knows where their captain is.
Ilya's location hasn't been updated in five hours now.
Deep in his heart, Shane knows his husband is not going to be there. He knows they're all stalling the inevitable- his husband is missing.
His husband could be—
"Shane," Troy mutters. "We're more than an hour away. If we get the authorities involved-"
"No," Shane shakes his head. "No authorities. Not yet," he knows he's stalling. "There's just- so much at risk with that."
No one dares to refute him. Even if they all know he's probably in denial.
Wiebe sighs as they drive through the traffic of the city. "You guys seriously don't remember anything?"
"I've been trying," Luca sounds like he's about to burst into tears. "I swear I have no idea what happened. I don't even remember arriving at the hotel."
They demanded the hotel to watch the security cameras. It shows Wyatt and Luca arriving in a cab at around four thirty in the morning- alone, stumbling through the doors and towards the elevator, the cab driver watching them, leaning against his car. Ilya never made it back.
Shane knows what that means.
It means Ilya's probably not safe.
It means something happened to him. At the stupid nerd party.
"If he's just— drunk out of his ass and ended up in a motel room or something and that gets out— or if he did something illegal— we can't afford that right now," Shane murmurs. "Not with his citizenship status still due, not with the risk of him going back to Russia. Not yet."
They drive in silence.
Shane texts, and texts, and texts, because his fingers feel restless and his brain is spinning out of control, and he's always hated the desert, and there seems to be nothing but that around them.
'Please,' he sends. 'Please, answer me. Call me. Tell me you're okay.'
'You swore, Rozanov. You swore you would never leave me.'
"We're— five minutes away from his location," Wiebe says. Shane didn't even realize the hour-long drive had gone by. His hands are shaking. He's about to have a panic attack, everyone in the car knows that. No one says anything.
They all start paying attention, scanning for Ilya. There's no one.
Not a single person around.
The highway goes on and on, its extension blurring with the heat of the Nevada desert.
And even if he knew, he can't deny it now. His husband is not there.
Wiebe stops the car on the side of the highway. They've arrived at the location. They get out of the car.
"Ilya!" Troy calls, even if he knows it's futile.
"Shane," Luca whispers. He bends down and picks up something from the ground. His voice is shaking, and he's not even trying to hide it. "We really need to call the police."
Shane walks towards him. Luca's holding Ilya's phone- Shane recognizes it because his case is white, and Shane had told him it was a terrible choice because it would stain easily. The screen is shattered. And the case is stained bright red.
Troy catches him before he falls.
"Right," he manages to let out. He's on his knees, and the middle of the desert, and his husband is missing.
Ilya is missing. And he's hurt.
Ilya promised.
"Call— we call the police."
*
In all the years he's spent travelling through the US, he's never been to a police station.
Wiebe is talking to the detective, and Shane knows he should probably be the one doing that, but he just had a panic attack so bad he ended up throwing up in the bathroom sink, with Troy rubbing his back and begging him to breathe.
The police are still interrogating Wyatt and Luca.
It's almost noon now. Shane should probably be updating them- they've all been texting all morning. He just can't bring himself to talk to anyone right now. Words are stuck in his throat, clinging to his tongue and to his feelings, and he remembers being eleven and being unable to speak after losing a game or having a bad day at practice. He feels his plastic chair swaying from under him, trapping him in an endless twirl of fear and anxiety.
"Is he on any medication? Any history of depression or suicidal tendencies?" He hears the cop ask Wiebe. His coach looks at him, raising an eyebrow. Wiebe knows about the antidepressants- but he's checking with Shane before revealing it. His breath hitches with appreciation. He nods.
"Yeah," Wiebe answers, and Shane's heart breaks a little. "He has clinical depression. He takes sertraline."
"Not sertraline," Shane whispers. Wiebe looks up at him, confused. "He's on venlafaxine. And lithium."
The cop writes it down. "Do you have any reason to believe he may have hurt himself?"
Shane shakes his head. "No," he's too exhausted to be angry. "He wouldn't. Someone did this to him."
"Mr. Hollander," the officer's voice is stained with pity. "We have no reason to believe-"
"His phone was covered in blood," Troy growls.
"I understand that. And we are working on tracking him down, but if Mr. Rozanov has a history of depression, maybe you should consider—"
"I said no, okay? Ilya wouldn't hurt himself. Yes, he struggles, but he wouldn't- he didn't- he's not- he's in danger, don't you get that? You're supposed to help him."
Shane half expects the police officer to return his anger. But he looks unphased, and still compassionate. "We will. The precinct where he was last seen does have security cameras- we're working on getting to watch them. We'll move from there. And we will call you with updates."
"What do you expect us to do now?" Troy does sound mad. He's always been protective of Ilya, and Shane's glad he came with them. "Just sit and wait?"
"Someone should go back to the hotel you were staying at, in case he shows up."
Wiebe nods. "Alright. We can do that."
"If you want to, we could put an alert out there- I'm under the understanding that your husband is a public figure, Mr. Hollander. Maybe that could help too, have people call if anyone sees him or hears from him."
"Um-" he doesn't know how to answer that. Would it help? Or would it just make it all harder for Ilya when they find him, if the whole world knew he went missing?
"You don't have to make that choice right now," the Officer offers. "You can let us know if we have your permission for that."
"Alright."
"I'm really sorry this is happening to you. But we'll do our best to bring him home."
Their best.
Shane just hopes it's enough.
*
"We should drive around," Troy says when they're all back in the car. Wiebe is still driving, but Shane's sitting in the passenger seat now. "The rest of the team is at the hotel. We should see if we can find him."
They all know it won't do much, but they do. They drive along the highway slowly, blinkers on, while Shane gathers up the courage to call his parents. Or Svetlana. Maybe she will know what to do.
"I didn't know Ilya had changed medications," Wiebe's voice breaks the silence, quiet and gentle.
Shane shrugs. "It's new. It's barely been a month- his therapist, his psychiatrist and Terry all decided it together. Oh god, he's not even supposed to be drinking."
"I still don't remember much," Wyatt mutters from the back seat. "But- I don't think he was drinking. He said something about letting us get drunk because he'd be sober and could watch out for us."
"Did you tell that to the police?"
"Yeah."
"Shane," Wiebe's words are careful, way too gentle. He doesn't want to upset him. "Are you sure Ilya wouldn't-?"
"No!" His scream is way louder than he thought it would be. "He wouldn't. He- promised."
"Alright," Wiebe stares at the highway ahead. "It's just that- I'm worried, that's it."
"And you think I'm not?"
"I didn't say that, Shane. I can't even imagine what you must be feeling right now."
"Then please don't try."
Wiebe nods. He keeps on driving.
Shane's phone starts ringing.
For a single second, he hopes it will be Ilya. Even if his phone is with the police, working as evidence, fully broken. But, of course, the contact he stares at on his screen is not Ilya.
It's Svetlana.
He answers.
"Svetlana?"
"Shane! Where the fuck are you?"
"Um- something, something happened."
"Yeah, no shit, I just received a call from Ilya."
"What the fuck?" Shane's pretty sure he's about to throw up again. "Ilya called you?"
"From a payphone. He doesn't know where he is. He was pretty out of it- I think he's hurt. I told him to stay fucking put. I'm calling the payphone but no one's picking up."
Shane puts the phone on speaker. He can feel everyone's eyes on him. "Did he- Svetlana, did he say something about his location?"
"No, no, I- I'm sending you the number. He said he was outside a gas station. Said he was hot, that my number's the only one he knows by heart."
"That goddamn idiot," Shane hears himself saying. "He should have called 911."
Svetlana chuckles a little, but it sounds terrifyingly hollow. "Yeah. I said the same thing."
"He's missing, Sveta. I- the police are looking into it. But- thank god he called you. That means he's alive."
Because a small, traitorous part of him had been fearing the worst- had started toying with the idea that Ilya could have been lying in a ditch somewhere, wedding ring around a pulseless finger.
"Should I go to Las Vegas?"
"You said he sounded like he was hurt?"
"He sounded so confused. He kept asking about an Obi."
"That's me!" Luca yells from the backseat. "That's- that's me. I'm Obi-Wan Kenobi. He was Qui-Gon Jinn."
"What?" Svetlana and Shane say at the same time.
"It's a Star Wars reference."
"Alright. So he's— confused? And bleeding, apparently."
He hears Svetlana take in a breath. "Alright. I'm taking the first flight I can."
"I'm going to call the police," Shane says. "Send them the number, so they can locate the payphone he called you from."
"Okay. Okay, you do that. And Shane? He's going to be okay."
Once again, he swallows down his tears. "Yeah. He's going to be okay."
*
The police manage to track the location of the payphone from the number. It's forty minutes away from where Shane and the Centaurs are.
"We're sending the nearest police station," Officer Olsen says, the one from the station earlier. "It's still thirty minutes away, maybe."
"We'll see you there," Shane says, and then he hangs up.
Ilya is alive.
Ilya is alive, and yes, maybe he's hurt, and something awful could have happened to him, but he's alive, and Shane can deal with anything, with everything, as long as Ilya is alive. As long as he's still by his side.
Wiebe drives as fast as he dares to.
When they get to the gas station, Shane realizes it's an abandoned one. It's dusty and old and his heart drops in his chest, landing heavily against his stomach. There's a police car, its lights still shining.
Shane gets out of the car even if Wiebe hasn't stopped completely yet.
He runs towards the police officers.
"Where is he?" He demands.
"Good afternoon," one of them says. He's tall and young- maybe his age. "I'm really sorry to tell you this, sir, but it seems like your husband is no longer here."
To their credit, they don't say anything when Shane bursts out crying.
*
Wyatt and Luca insist on keeping on driving, keep on looking.
Shane's too shaken to refuse.
He rests his head against the window and doesn't bother to keep his tears to himself.
The desert extends in front of him like an infinite battlefield- miles and miles of sand and sun and loneliness.
He's back at not knowing anything, once again. He just feels so- helpless.
So useless.
He hates it.
But he's not going to give up. He is going to find his husband. And they are going to win the goddamn cup and they're going to start looking into adoption and he's going to yell until Ilya shuts him up with a kiss.
A couple of kisses.
There is no other option. No other outcome.
Shane has always been a stubborn man. Someone who achieves whatever goal he sets for himself. And he is going to get Ilya back, even if he has to crawl through the entire desert, even if he has to look under every single rock that there is on earth.
His phone rings again.
"Hello?" His voice is wrecked. He doesn't care.
"Mr. Hollander? It's Officer Olsen. We know what happened to your husband."